^ 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


y 


/ 


o 


{/ 


<;>"  \s 


V 


1.0 


I.I 


1.25 


l^|Z8 

•  50      '■^™ 


-    6" 


M 

12:2 

M 

1.8 


U    nil  1.6 


V] 


<? 


7^ 


■<^i  ^^ 


^0 


>> 


(? 


7 


/ 


-^ 


I 


Photographic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


33  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  NY.  14580 

(716)  872-4503 


^%% 


4^ 


CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHIVI/ICMH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microreproductions  /  Institut  Canadian  de  microreproductions  historiques 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notas/Notes  tachniques  at  bibliographiquaa 


Tha  Instituta  has  attamptad  to  obtain  th«  baat 
original  copy  available  for  filming.  Faaturar  of  this 
copy  which  may  ba  bibllographinally  uniqua, 
which  may  altar  any  of  tha  imagas  in  tha 
raproduction,  or  which  may  significantly  changa 
tha  usual  mathod  of  filming,  ara  chackad  baiow. 


D 


D 


D 


n 


□ 


n 


Colourad  covars/ 
Couvarture  da  coulaur 


I         wovars  damagad/ 


Couvarture  andommagia 


Covers  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Couverture  restaurie  et/ou  paiiiculAe 


I      I    Cover  title  missing/ 


Le  titre  de  couvarture  manque 


I      I    Coloured  maps/ 


Cartes  giographiquas  en  couleur 

Coloured  init  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)/ 
Encre  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 


I      I    Coloured  plates  and/or  illustrations/ 


Planches  et/ou  illustrations  en  couleur 

Bound  with  other  material/ 
Relid  avec  d'a'jtres  documents 

Tight  binding  may  cause  shadows  or  distortion 
along  interior  margin/ 

La  reliure  serr^e  peut  causer  de  i'ombre  ou  de  la 
distortion  le  long  de  la  marge  intirieura 

Blank  leaves  added  during  restoration  may 
appear  within  the  text.  Whenever  possible,  these 
have  been  omitted  from  filming/ 
II  se  peut  que  certaines  pages  blanches  ajouties 
lors  d'une  restauration  apparaissent  dans  le  texte, 
mais,  lorsque  cela  6tait  possible,  ces  pages  n'ont 
pas  6t6  filmAes. 

Additional  comments:/ 
Commentaires  suppl6mentaires; 


L'Institut  a  microf!lmA  la  mailleur  «xemplaira 
qu'il  lui  a  6t6  possible  de  se  procurer.  Les  ditaiis 
tie  cet  exemplaira  qui  sont  peut-Atre  uniques  du 
point  de  vue  bibliogmphique,  qui  peuvent  modifier 
una  image  reproduite,  ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une 
modification  dans  la  mftthoda  normala  de  filmage 
sont  indiquAs  ci-dasscus. 


r~n   Coloured  pages/ 


D 
D 


This  item  r.  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 

Ce  document  est  film4  au  taux  de  reduction  indiquA  ci-dessous. 


Pages  de  couleur 

Pages  damaged/ 
Pages  endommagias 

Pages  restored  and/oi 

Pages  restaurdas  et/ou  pallicul6es 

Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxe( 
Pages  d6color6es,  tachet6es  ou  piquies 

Pages  detached/ 
Pages  d6tach6e8 

Showthroughy 
Transparence 

Quality  of  prir 

Quality  in6gale  de  I'impression 

Includes  supplementary  matarit 
Comprend  du  materiel  suppl^mentaire 


I      I  Pages  damaged/ 

I      I  Pages  restored  and/or  laminated/ 

ry\  Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed/ 

□  Pages  detached/ 
Pages 

r~l  Showthrough/ 

I      I  Quality  of  print  varies/ 

I      I  Includes  supplementary  material/ 


The 
to  th 


The 
poss 
of  th 
filmi 


Origi 
begi 
the  I 
sion, 
othe 
first 
sion, 
or  ill 


Only  edition  available/ 
Seule  Edition  disponible 

Pages  wholly  or  partially  obscured  by  errata 
slips,  tissues,  etc.,  have  been  ref limed  to 
ensure  the  best  possible  image/ 
Les  pages  totalement  ou  partieiiement 
obscurcies  par  un  feuiilet  d'errata,  une  pelure, 
etc.,  ont  6t^  fiim6es  A  nouveau  de  fa9on  d 
obtenir  la  meiiieure  image  possible. 


The 
shall 
TINl 
whic 

Map 
diffe 
entir 
begi 
right 
requ 
metl 


10X 

14X 

18X 

22X 

26X 

30X 

j_ 

12X 

16X 

20X 

24X 

28X 

32X 

re 

I6tails 
IS  du 
nodifier 
ir  une 
ilmage 


The  copy  filmed  here  has  been  reproduced  thanks 
to  the  generosity  of: 

National  Library  of  Canada 


The  images  appearing  here  are  the  best  quality 
possible  considering  the  condition  and  legibility 
of  the  original  copy  and  in  keeping  with  the 
filming  contract  specifications. 


L'exemplaire  film6  fut  reproduit  grAce  d  la 
g6n6rosit6  de: 

Bibliothdque  nationale  du  Canada 


Les  images  suivantes  ont  6x6  reproduites  avec  le 
plus  grand  soin,  compte  tenu  de  la  condition  et 
de  la  nettetd  de  l'exemplaire  film6,  et  en 
conformity  avec  les  conditions  du  contrat  de 
filmage. 


Original  copies  in  printed  paper  covers  are  filmed 
beginning  with  the  front  cover  and  ending  on 
the  last  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, or  the  back  cover  when  appropriate.  All 
other  original  copies  are  filmed  beginning  on  the 
first  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, and  ending  on  the  last  page  with  a  printed 
or  illustratad  impression. 


es 


Les  exemplaires  originaux  dont  la  couverture  en 
papier  est  imprimde  sont  film6s  an  commengant 
par  le  premier  plat  et  en  terminant  soit  par  la 
dernidre  page  qui  compOrte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration,  soit  par  le  second 
plat,  selon  le  cas.  Tous  les  autres  exemplaires 
originaux  sont  filmds  en  commenqant  par  la 
premidre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration  et  en  terminant  par 
la  dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shall  contain  the  symbol  ^»>  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  the  symbol  V  (meaning  "END"), 
whichever  applies. 

Maps,  plates,  charts,  etc.,  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratios.  Those  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


Un  des  symboles  suivants  apparaitra  sur  la 
dernidre  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  le 
cas:  le  symbole  — ►  signifie  "A  SUIVRE",  le 
symbole  V  signifie  "FIN". 

Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  dtre 
filmds  d  des  taux  de  reduction  diffdrents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  dtre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  cliche,  il  est  filmd  d  partir 
de  Tangle  supdrieur  gauche,  de  gauche  d  droite, 
et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  ndcessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  mdthode. 


errata 
i  to 


e  pelure, 
ion  d 


n 


1 

2 

3 

32X 


1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

< 


■^"x._ 


;- 

I 


THE   TRANSLATION 
OF  A  SAVAGE 


BY 

GILBERT   PARKER 

AUTHOR    OF    PIERRE    AND    HIS    PEOPLE,    THE    CHIEF    FACTOR 
MRS.    FALCHION,    ETC. 


NEW    YORK 
I).    APPLETON    AND    COMPANY 

1897 


A-S  0  7"/. 


127176 


I 


Copyright,  1893, 
By   D.   APPLETON  AND  COMPANY. 


I   . 


/ 


/ 


I 


1   i' 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER 

PAGE 

I.- 

-His  Great  Mistake,    . 

I 

II.- 

-A  Difficult  Situation, 

.         19 

III.- 

-Out  of  the  North,  ,   . 

.        41 

IV.- 

-In  the  Name  of  the  Family, 

.        48 

V.- 

-An  Awkward  Half-Hour, 

.        62 

VI.- 

-The  Passing  of  the  Years, 

.     106 

VII.- 

-A  Court-Martial, 

.     138 

VIII.- 

-To  Every  Man  His  Hour, 

.      152 

TX.- 

-The  Faith  of  Comrades,     . 

.     174 

1:1 


/ 


f;  1 


r      •# 


^ 


i 


Z\x  Zvmwlation  of  a  Savacjc 


CHAPTER   I. 


HIS    GREAT    MISTAKE. 


r        # 


\T  appeared  that  Armour  had 
made  the  great  mistake  of  his 
life.  When  people  came  to 
know,  they  said  that  to  have 
done  it  when  sober  had  shown  him  pos- 
sessed of  a  kind  of  maliciousness  and  cyni- 
cism almost  pardonable,  but  to  do  it  when 
tipsy  proved  him  merely  weak  and  foolish. 
But  the  fact  is,  he  was  less  tipsy  at  the  time 
than  was  imagined;  and  he  could  have 
answered  to  more  malice  and  cynicism 
than  was  credited  to  him.  To  those  who 
know  the  world  it  is  not  singular  that,  of 
the  two.  Armour  was  thought  to  have 
made  the  mistake  and  had  the  misfortune, 
or  that  people  wasted  their  pity  and  their 


2 


^bc  (Translation  of  a  Savaoc. 


scorn  upon  him  alone.  Apparently  they 
did  not  see  that  the  woman  was  to  be 
pitied.  He  had  married  her;  and  she  was 
only  an  Indian  girl  from  Fort  Charles  of 
the  Hudson's  Bay  Company,  with  a  little 
honest  white  blood  in  her  veins.  Nobody, 
not  even  her  own  people,  felt  that  she  had 
anything  at  stake,  or  was  in  danger  of  im- 
happiness,  or  was  other  than  a  person  who 
had  ludicrously  come  to  bear  the  name  of 
Mrs.  Francis  Armour.  If  anyone  had 
said  in  justification  that  she  loved  the 
man,  the  answer  would  have  been  that 
plenty  of  Indian  women  had  loved  white 
men,  but  had  not  married  them,  and  j^et 
the  population  of  half-breeds  went  on  in- 
creasing. 

Frank  Armour  had  been  a  popular  man 
in  London.  His  club  might  be  found  in 
the  vicinit3^of  Pall  Mall,  his  father's  name 
was  high  and  honoured  in  the  Army  List, 
one  of  his  brothers  had  served  with  Wolse- 
ley  in  Africa,  and  himself,  having  no  pro- 
fession, but  with  a  taste  for  business  and 
investment,  had  gone  to  Canada  with  some 
such  intention  as  Lord  vSelkirk's  in  the 
early  part  of  the  century.      He  owned  large 


1i 


I 


fjla  Orcat  /Ristahc. 


8 


shares  in  the  Hudson's  Ray  Company,  and 
when  he  travelled  throiij^h  the  North- 
West  country,  prospecting^,  he  was  re- 
ceived most  hospitably.  Of  an  inquirinp^ 
and  gregarious  nature  he  went  as  much 
among  the  half-breeds — or  metis,  as  they 
are  called — and  Indians  as  among  t'le 
officers  of  the  Hudson's  Bay  Company  and 
the  white  settlers.  He  had  ever  been 
credited  with  having  a  philosophical  turn 
of  mind;  and  this  was  accompanied  by 
a  certain  strain  of  impulsiveness  or  daring. 
He  had  been  accustomed  all  his  life  to 
make  up  his  mind  quickly,  and,  because 
he  was  well  enough  off  to  bear  the  conse- 
quences of  momentary  rashness  in  com- 
mercial investments,  he  was  not  counted 
among  the  transgressors.  He  had  his 
own  fortune ;  he  was  not  drawing  upon  a 
common  purse.  It  was  a  different  matter 
when  he  trafficked  rashly  in  the  family 
name,  so  far  as  to  marry  the  daughter  of 
Eye-of-the-Moon,  the  Indian  chief. 

He  was  tolerably  happy  when  he  went 
to  the  Hudson's  Bay  country;  for  Miss 
Julia  Sherwood  was  his  promised  wife, 
and   she,   if  poor,  was  notably   beautiful 


A 


4  tTbc  ZTranalation  of  a  Sav»a(;c. 

and  of  ^^ood  family.  Ilis  people  had  not 
looked  (luite  kindly  on  this  en^i^agcmcnt ; 
they  had,  indeed,  tried  in  many  ways  to 
prevent  it;  partly  because  of  Miss  Sher- 
wood's poverty,  and  also  because  they 
knew  that  Lady  Agnes  Martling  had  long 
cared  for  him,  and  was  m(jst  happily  en- 
dowed with  wealth  and  good  looks  also. 
When  he  left  for  Canada  they  were  in- 
wardly glad  (they  imagined  that  some- 
thing might  occur  to  end  the  engagement) 
— all  except  Richard,  the  wiseacre  of  the 
family,  the  book-man,  the  drone,  who  pre- 
ferred living  at  Greyhope,  their  Hertford- 
shire home,  the  year  through,  to  spending 
half  the  time  in  Cavendish  Square. 
Richard  was  very  fond  of  Frank,  admiring 
him  immensely  for  his  buxom  strength 
and  cleverness,  and  not  a  little,  too,  for 
that  very  rashness  which  had  brought  him 
such  havoc  at  last. 

Richard  was  not,  as  Frank  used  to  say, 
"perfectly  sound  on  his  pins," — that  is,  he 
was  slightly  lame, — but  he  was  right  at 
heart.  He  was  an  immense  reader,  but 
made  little  use  of  what  he  read.  He  had 
an   abundant   humour,    and    remembered 


in 


1)ik3  Great  Ai^tahc. 


every  ancccloLe  he  ever  heard.  He  was 
kind  to  the  poor,  walked  much,  talked  to 
himself  as  he  walked,  and  was  known  by 
the  humble  sort  as  "  a 'centric. "  But  he 
had  a  wise  head,  and  he  foresaw  danger  to 
Frank's  happiness  when  he  went  away. 
Whilst  others  had  gossippcd  and  manreu- 
vred  and  were  busily  idle,  he  had  watched 
things.  He  saw  that  Frank  was  dear  to 
Julia  in  proportion  to  the  distance  between 
her  and  young  Lord  Ilaldwell,  whose  father 
had  done  something  remarkable  in  guns 
or  torpedoes  and  was  rewarded  with  a 
lordship  and  an  uncommonly  large  fortune. 
He  also  saw  that,  after  Frank  left,  the 
distance  between  Lord  Haldwell  and  Julia 
became  distinctly  less — they  were  both 
staying  at  Greyhope.  Julia  Sherwood 
was  a  remarkably  clever  girl.  Though  he 
felt  it  his  duty  to  speak  to  her  for  his 
brother, — a  difficult  and  delicate  matter, 
— he  thought  it  would  come  better  from 
his  mother. 

But  when  he  took  action  it  was  too  late. 
Miss  Sherwood  naively  declared  that  she 
had  not  known  her  own  heart,  and  that 
she  did  not  care  for  Frank  any  more.     She 


^ 


6 


Zbc  ITranelation  of  a  Savage. 


wept  a  little,  and  was  soothed  by  motherly 
Mrs.  Armour,  who  was  inwardly  glad, 
though  she  knew  the  matter  would  cause 
Frank  pain ;  and  even  General  Armour 
could  not  help  showing  slight  satisfaction, 
though  he  was  innocent  of  any  deliberate 
action  to  separate  the  two.  Straightway 
Miss  Sherwood  dispatched  a  letter  to  the 
wilds  of  Canada,  and  for  a  week  was  an 
unengaged  young  person.  But  she  was 
no  doubt  consoled  by  the  fact  that  for  some 
time  past  she  had  had  complete  control  of 
Lord  Haldwell's  emotions.  At  the  end  of 
the  week  her  perceptions  were  justified  by 
Lord  Haldwell's  proposal;  which,  with 
admirable  tact  and  obvious  demureness, 
was  accepted. 

Now,  Frank  Armour  was  wandering 
much  in  the  wilds,  so  that  his  letters  and 
papers  went  careering  about  after  him,  and 
some  that  came  first  were  last  to  reach 
him.  That  was  how  he  received  a  news- 
paper announcing  the  marriage  of  Lord 
Haldvvell  and  Julia  Sherwood  at  the  same 
time  that  her  letter,  written  in  estimable 
English  and  with  admirable  feeling,  came, 
begging  for  a  release  from  their  engage- 


I 


I 


fbis  (3rcat  ^l6tahc. 


ment,  and,  towards  its  close,  assuming, 
with  a  charming  regret,  that  all  was  over 
and  that  the  last  word  had  been  said  be- 
tween them. 

Armour  was  sitting  in  the  trader's  room 
at  Fort  Charles  when  the  carrier  came  with 
the  mails.  He  had  had  some  successful 
days  hunting  buffalo  with  Eye-of-the- 
Moon  and  a  little  band  of  metis,  had  had 
a  long pow-u'07Z'  in  Eye-of -the- Moon's  lodge, 
had  chatted  gaily  with  Lali  the  daughter, 
and  was  now  prepared  to  enjoy  heartily 
the  arrears  of  correspondence  and  news 
before  him.  He  ran  his  hand  through  the 
letters  and  papers,  intending  to  classify 
them  immediately,  according  to  such  hand- 
writing as  he  recognised  and  the  dates  on 
the  envelopes.  But,  as  he  did  so,  he  saw 
a  newspaper  from  which  the  wrapper  was 
partly  torn.  He  also  saw  a  note  in  the 
margin  directing  him  to  a  certain  page. 
The  note  was  in  Richard's  handwriting. 
He  opened  the  paper  at  the  page  indicated, 
and  saw  the  account  of  the  marriage !  His 
teeth  clinched  on  his  cigar,  his  face  turned 
white,  the  paper  fell  from  his  fingers. 
He  gasped,  his  hands  spread  out  nervously, 


8 


Zbc  Zlranelation  of  a  Savage. 


then  caught  the  table  and  held  it  as  though 
to  steady  himself. 


The  trader    rose.     "  You    are 


ill," 


he 


said.    *'  Have  you  bad  news.'"    He  glanced 
towards  the  paper. 

Slowly  Armour  folded  the  paper  up, 
and  then  rose  unsteadily.  "Gordon,"  he 
said,  *' give  me  a  glass  of  brandy." 

He  turned  towards  the  cupboard  in  the 
room.  The  trader  opened  it,  took  out  a 
bottle,  and  put  it  on  the  table  beside  Ar- 
mour, together  with  a  glass  and  some 
water.  Armour  poured  out  a  stiff  draught, 
added  a  very  little  water,  and  drank  it. 
He  drew  a  great  sigh,  and  stood  looking 
at  the  paper. 

"  Is  there  anything  I  can  do  for  you,  Mr. 
Armour?"  urged  the  trader. 

*'  Nothing,  thank  you,  nothing  at  all. 
Just  leave  the  brandy  here,  will  you?  I 
feel  knocked  about,  and  I  have  to  go 
through  the  rest  of  these  letters. " 

He  ran  his  fingers   through  the  pile 
turning  it  over  hastily,  as  if  searching  foi 
something.     The  trader  understood.     He 
was   a   cool-headed    Scotsman;    he   knew 
that  there  were  some  things  best  not  in 


t)i0  Great  /IBistafte. 


9 


quired  into,  and  that  men  must  have  their 
bad  hours  alone.  He  glanced  at  the 
brandy  debatingly,  but  presently  turned 
and  left  the  room  in  silence.  In  his  own 
mind,  however,  he  wished  he  might  have 
taken  the  brandy  without  being  discour- 
teous. Armour  had  discovered  Miss  Sher- 
wood's letter.  Before  he  opened  it  he 
took  a  little  more  brandy.  Then  he  sat 
down  and  read  it  deliberately.  The  liquor 
had  steadied  him.  The  fingers  of  one 
hand  even  drummed  on  the  table.  But 
the  face  was  drawn,  the  eyes  were  hard, 
and  the  look  of  him  was  altogether  pinched. 
After  he  had  finished  this,  he  looked  for 
others  from  the  same  hand.  He  found 
none.  Then  he  picked  out  those  from  bis 
mother  and  father.  He  read  them  grimly. 
Once  he  paused  as  he  read  his  mother's 
letter,  and  took  a  gulp  of  plain  brandy. 
There  was  something  very  like  a  sneer 
on  his  face  w^hen  he  finished  reading. 
He  read  the  hollowness  of  the  sympathy 
extended  to  him;  he  understood  the  far 
from  adroit  references  to  Lady  Agnes 
Martling.  He  was  very  bitter.  He  opened 
no  more  letters,  but  took  up  the  Morjiing 


i 


10 


Zbe  translation  of  a  Savage, 


Post  again,  and  read  it  slowly  through. 
The  look  of  his  face  was  not  pleasant. 
There  was  a  small  looking-glass  opposite 
him.  He  caught  sight  of  himself  in  it. 
He  drew  his  hand  across  his  eyes  and  fore- 
head, as  though  he  was  in  a  miserable 
dream.  He  looked  again:  he  could  not 
recognise  himself. 

He  then  bundled  the  letters  and  papers 
into  his  dispatch-box.  His  attention  was 
drawn  to  one  letter.  He  picked  it  up.  It 
was  from  Richard.  He  started  to  break 
the  seal,  but  paused.  The  strain  of  the 
event  was  too  much.  He  winced.  He 
determined  not  to  read  it  then;  to  wait 
imtil  he  had  recovered  himself.  He 
laughed  now  painfully.  It  had  been  bet- 
ter for  him — it  had,  maybe,  averted  what 
people  were  used  to  term  his  tragedy — 
had  he  read  his  brother's  letter  at  that 
moment.  For  Richard  Armour  was  a 
sensible  man,  notwithstanding  his  pecu- 
liarities; and  perhaps  the  most  sensible 
words  he  ever  wrote  were  in  that  letter 
thrust  unceremoniously  into  Frank  Ar- 
mour's pocket. 

Armour  had  received  a  terrible  blow. 


I 


'% 
■■)?/ 


1bi6  Great  /IRiatahc. 


11 


t 


He  read  his  life  backwards.  He  had  no 
future.  The  liquor  he  had  drunk  had  not 
fevered  him,  it  had  not  wildly  excited 
him;  it  merely  drew  him  up  to  a  point 
where  he  could  put  a  sudden  impulse  into 
practice  without  flinching.  He  was  bit- 
ter against  his  people;  he  credited  them 
with  more  interference  than  was  actual. 
He  felt  that  happiness  had  gone  out  of  his 
life  and  left  him  hopeless.  As  we  said, 
ho  was  a  man  of  quick  decisions.  He 
would  have  made  a  dashing  but  reckless 
soldier;  he  was  not  without  the  elements 
of  the  gamester.  It  is  possible  that  there 
was  in  him  also  a  strain  of  cruelty,  un- 
developed but  radical.  Life  so  far  had 
evolved  the  best  in  him;  he  had  been 
cheery  and  candid.  Now  he  travelled 
back  into  new  avenues  of  his  mind  and 
found  strange  aboriginal  passions,  fully 
adapted  to  the  present  situation.  Vulgar 
anger  and  reproaches  were  not  after  his 
nature.  He  suddenly  found  sources  of  re- 
fined but  desperate  retaliation.  He  drew 
upon  them.  He  would  do  something  to 
humiliate  his  people  and  the  girl  who  had 
spoiled   his   life.     Some    one    thing!     It 


i 


12 


Zbc  ^ran0lat(on  of  a  Savage. 


would  be  absolute  and  lasting,  it  would 
show  how  low  had  fallen  his  opinion  of 
women,  of  whom  Julia  Sherwood  had  once 
been  chiefest  to  him.  In  that  he  would 
show  his  scorn  of  her.  He  would  bring 
down  the  pride  of  his  family,  who,  he  be- 
lieved, had  helped,  out  of  mere  selfishness, 
to  tumble  his  happiness  into  the  sliambles. 
He  was  older  by  years  than  an  hour 
ago.  But  he  was  not  without  the  faculty 
of  humour.  That  was  why  he  did  not  be- 
come very  excited;  it  was  also  why  he 
determined  upon  a  comedy  which  should 
have  all  the  elements  of  tragedy.  Perhaps, 
however,  he  would  have  hesitated  to  carry 
his  purposes  to  immediate  conclusions, 
were  it  not  that  the  very  gods  seemed  to 
play  his  game  with  him.  For,  whilst  he 
stood  there,  looking  out  into  the  yard  of 
the  fort,  a  Protestant  missionary  passed  the 
window.  The  Protestant  missionary,  as 
he  is  found  at  such  places  as  Fort  Charles, 
is  not  a  strictly  superior  person.  A  Jesuit 
might  have  been  of  advantage  to  Frank 
Armour  at  that  moment.  The  Protestant 
missionary  is  not  above  comfortable  assur- 
ances of    gold.      So   that   when   Armour 


:li 


1)10  (Breat  jflRistaJie. 


18 


summoned  this  one  in,  and  told  him  what 
was  required  of  him,  and  slipped  a  gener- 
ous gift  of  the  queen's  coin  into  his  hand, 
he  smiled  vaguely  and  was  willing  to  do 
what  he  was  bidden.  Had  he  been  a 
Jesuit,  who  is  sworn  to  poverty,  and  more 
often  than  not  a  man  of  birth  and  educa- 
tion, he  might  have  influenced  Frank 
Armour  and  prevented  the  notable  mis- 
hap and  scandal.  As  it  was,  Armour  took 
mote  brandy. 

Then  he  went  down  to  Eye-of-the-Moon's 
lodge.  A  few  hours  afterwards  the  mis- 
sionary met  him  there.  The  next  morn- 
ing Lali,  the  daughter  of  Eye-of-the- 
Moon,  and  the  chieftainess  of  a  portion  of 
her  father's  tribe,  whose  grandfath'^r  had 
been  a  white  man,  was  introduced  to  the 
Hudson's  Bay  country  as  Mrs.  Frank  Ar- 
mour. But  that  was  not  all.  Indeed,  as 
it  stood,  it  was  very  little.  He  had  only 
made  his  comedy  possible  as  yet ;  now  the 
play  itself  was  to  come.  He  had  carried 
his  scheme  through  boldly  so  far.  He 
would  not  flinch  in  carrying  it  out  to  the 
last  letter.  He  brought  his  wife  down  to 
the   Great    Lakes    immediately,    scarcely 

2 


m 

m 


•1! 


1 


■■-,    1 


I 


14 


tTbc  tTranelation  of  a  Savage. 


resting  night  or  day.  There  he  engaged 
an  ordinary  but  reliable  woman,  to  whom 
he  gave  instructions,  and  sent  the  pair  to 
the  coast.  He  instructed  his  solicitor  at 
Montreal  to  procure  passages  for  Mrs. 
Francis  Armour  and  maid  for  Liverpool. 
Then,  by  letters,  he  instructed  his  solicitor 
in  London  to  meet  Mrs.  Francis  Armour 
and  maid  at  Liverpool  and  take  them  to 
Greyhope  in  Hertfordshire, — that  is,  if 
General  Armour  and  Mrs.  Armour,  or 
some  representative  of  the  family,  did  not 
meet  them  when  they  landed  from  the 
steamship. 

Presently  he  sat  down  and  wrote  to  his 
father  and  mother,  and  asked  them  to 
meet  his  wife  and  her  maid  when  they 
arrived  by  the  steamer  Aphrodite.  He 
did  not  explain  to  them  in  precise  detail 
his  feelings  on  Miss  Julia  Sherwood's 
marriage,  nor  did  he  go  into  full  ptirticu- 
lars  as  to  the  personality  of  Mrs.  Frank 
Armour;  but  he  did  say  that,  because  he 
knew  they  were  anxious  that  he  should 
marry  "acceptably,"  he  had  married  into 
the  aristocracy,  the  oldest  aristocracy,  of 
America;  and  because  he  also  knew  they 


l3ld  (3rcat  /Ibidtahe. 


15 


wished  him  to  murry  wealth,  he  sent  them 
a  wife  rich  in  virtues — native,  unspoiled 
virtues.  He  hoped  that  they  would  take 
her  to  their  hearts  and  cherish  her.  He 
knew  their  firm  principles  of  honour,  and 
that  he  could  trust  them  to  be  kind  to  his 
wife  until  he  returned  to  snare  the  affec- 
tion which  he  was  sure  would  be  given  to 
her.  It  was  not  his  intention  to  return  to 
England  for  some  time  yet.  He  had  work 
to  do  in  connection  with  his  proposed 
colony ;  and  a  wife — even  a  native  wife — 
could  not  \\el\  be  a  companion  in  the  cir- 
cumstances. Besides,  Lali — his  wife's 
name  was  Lali ! — would  be  better  occupied 
in  learning  the  peculiarities  of  the  life  in 
which  her  future  would  be  cast.  It  was 
possible  they  would  find  her  an  apt  pupil. 
Of  this  they  could  not  complain,  that  she 
was  untravelled;  for  she  had  ridden  a 
horse,  bareback,  half  across  the  continent. 
They  could  not  cavil  at  her  education,  for 
she  knew  several  languages — aboriginal 
languages — of  the  North.  She  had  merely 
to  learn  the  dialect  of  English  society,  and 
how  to  carry  with  acceptable  form  the  cos- 
tumes of  the  race  to  which  she  was  going. 


hv 


!f 


!!' 


i^^ 


Md 


16 


ZTbe  ^translation  of  a  Savaoc. 


Her  own  costume  was  picturesque,  but  it 
mi^i^ht  appcjir  unusual  in  London  society. 
Still,  tliey  could  use  their  own  judgment 
about  that. 

Then,  when  she  was  gone  beyond  re- 
call, he  chanced  one  day  to  put  on  the 
coat  he  wore  when  the  letters  and  paper 
declaring  his  misfortune  came  to  him.. 
He  found  his  brother's  letter;  he  opened 
it  and  read  it.  It  was  the  letter  of  a  man 
who  knew  how  to  appreciate  at  their 
proper  value  the  misfortunes,  as  the  for- 
tunes, of  life.  While  Frank  Armour  read 
he  came  to  feel  for  the  first  time  that  his 
brother  Richard  had  suffered,  maybe, 
from  some  such  misery  as  had  come  to 
him  through  Julia  Sherwood.  It  was  a 
dispassionate,  manly  letter,  relieved  by  a 
gentle  wit,  and  hinting  with  careful  kind- 
ness that  a  sudden  blow  was  better  for  a 
man  than  a  life-Ion  ^  thorn  in  his  side.  Of 
Julia  Sherwood  he  had  nothing  particu- 
larly bitter  to  say.  He  delicately  sug- 
gested that  she  acted  according  to  her 
nature,  and  that  in  the  seesaw  of  life  Frank 
had  had  a  sore  blow;  but  this  was  to  be 
borne.     The  letter  did  not  say  too  much ; 


•fcitj  Great  fliiatafte. 


17 


it  did  not  ma^i^nify  the  difficulty,  it  did  not 
depreciate  it.  It  did  not  even  directly 
counsel;  it  was  wholesomely,  tenderly 
judicial.  Indirectly  it  dwelt  upon  the 
jjteadiness  and  manliness  of  Frank's  char- 
acter; directly,  lightly,  and  without  rhet- 
oric, it  enlarged  upon  their  own  comrade- 
ship. It  ran  over  pleasantly  the  days  of 
their  boyhood  when  they  were  hardly  ever 
separated.  It  made  distinct,  yet  with  no 
obvious  purpose,  how  good  were  friend- 
ship and  confidence — which  might  be  the 
most  unselfish  thing  in  the  world — be- 
tween two  men.  With  the  letter  before 
him  Frank  Armour  saw  his  act  in  a  new 
light. 

As  w^e  said,  it  is  possible  if  he  had  read 
it  on  the  day  when  his  trouble  came  to 
him,  he  had  not  married  Lali,  or  sent 
her  to  England  on  this — to  her — involun- 
tary mission  of  revenge.  It  is  possible, 
also,  that  there  came  to  him  the  first 
vague  conception  of  the  wrong  he  had 
done  this  Indian  girl,  who  undoubtedly 
married  him  because  she  cared  for  him 
after  her  heathen  fashion,  while  he  had 
married  her  for  nothing   that   was  com- 


li 


I 


\\ 


ill 
It 


18 


^bc  ^rattdlatton  of  a  Savage. 


mcndablc;  not  even  for  passion,  whieh 
may  be  pardoned,  nor  for  vanity,  which 
has  its  virtues.  He  had  had  his  hour  with 
eircumstance;  circumstance  would  have 
its  hour  with  him  in  due  course.  Yet  there 
was  no  extraordinary  revulsion.  He  was 
still  ani^ry,  cynical,  and  very  sore.  He 
w^ould  see  the  play  out  with  a  consistent 
firmness.  He  almost  managed  a  smile 
when  a  letter  was  handed  to  him  some 
weeks  later,  bcarinp^  his  solicitor's  assur- 
ance that  Mrs.  Frank  Armour  and  her 
maid  had  been  safely  bestowed  on  the 
Aphrodite  for  England.  This  was  the  first 
act  in  his  tragic  comedy. 


i! 


CHAPTER   ir. 

A    DIFFICUI/r    SITUATION. 

HEN  Mrs.  Frank  Armour  ar- 
rived at  ^[ontreal  she  still 
wore  her  Indian  costume  of 
clean  well-broidered  buckskin, 
moccasins,  and  Icg^^in^s,  all  surmounted 
by  a  blanket.  It  was  not  a  distinguished 
costimie,  but  it  seemed  suitable  to  its 
wearer.  Mr.  Armour's  agent  was  in  a 
quandary.  He  had  had  no  instructions 
regarding  her  dress.  He  felt,  of  course, 
that,  as  Mrs.  Frank  Armour,  she  should 
put  off  these  garments,  and  dress,  so  far  as 
was  possible,  in  accordance  with  her  new 
position.  But  when  he  spoke  about  it  to 
Mackenzie,  the  elderly  maid  and  compan- 
ion, he  found  that  Mr.  Armour  had  said 
that  his  wife  was  to  arrive  in  England 
dressed  as  she  was.  He  saw  something 
ulterior  in  the  matter,  but  it  was  not  his 
province  to  interfere.     And  so  Mrs.  Frank 

19 


d 


V 


■•*  i- 


20 


^be  vTranelation  of  a  Savage, 


Armour  was  a  passenger  by  the  Aphrodite 
in  her  buckskin  garments. 

What  she  thought  of  it  all  is  not  quite 
easy  to  say.  It  is  possible  that  at  hrst  she 
only  considered  that  she  was  the  wife  of  a 
white  man, — a  thing  to  be  desired, — and 
that  the  man  she  loved  was  hers  for  ever, 
— a  matter  of  indefinable  joy  to  her.  That 
he  was  sending  her  to  England  did  not 
fret  her,  because  it  was  his  will,  and  he 
knew  what  was  best.  Busy  with  her  con- 
tented and  yet  somewhat  dazed  thoughts 
of  him, — she  was  too  happy  to  be  very 
active  mentally,  even  if  it  had  been  the 
characteristic  of  her  race, — she  was  not  at 
first  aware  how  much  notice  she  excited 
and  how  strange  a  figure  she  was  in  this 
staring  city.  When  it  did  dawn  upon  her 
she  shrank  a  little,  but  still  was  placid, 
preferring  to  sit  with  her  hands  folded  in 
her  lap,  idly  watching  things.  She  ap- 
peared oblivious  that  she  was  the  wife  of 
a  man  of  family  and  rank;  she  was  only 
thinking  that  the  man  was  hers — all  hers. 
He  had  treated  her  kindly  enough  in  the 
days  they  were  together,  but  she  had  not 
been  a  great  deal  with  him,  because  they 


I 


m 


B  Difficult  Situation. 


21 


if 


w 


. 


travelled  fast,  and  his  duties  were  many, 
or  he  made  them  so — but  the  latter  possi- 
bility did  not  occur  to  her. 

When  he  had  hastily  bidden  her  farewell 
at  Port  Arthur  he  had  kissed  her  and  said, 
"Good-bye,  my  wife."  She  was  not  yet 
acute  enough  in  the  inflections  of  Saxon 
speech  to  catch  the  satire — almost  invol- 
untary— in  the  last  two  words.  She  re- 
membered the  words,  however,  and  the 
kiss,  and  she  was  quite  satisfied.  To  what 
she  was  going  she  did  not  speculate.  He 
was  sending  her:  that  was  enough. 

The  woman  given  to  her  as  maid  had 
been  well  chosen.  Armour  had  done  this 
carefully.  She  was  Scotch,  was  reserved, 
had  a  certain  amount  of  shrewdness,  would 
obey  instructions,  and  do  her  duty  care- 
fully. What  she  thought  about  the  whole 
matter  she  kept  to  herself;  even  the  solic- 
itor at  Montreal  could  not  find  out.  She 
had  her  instructions  clear  in  her  mind; 
she  was  determined  to  carry  them  out  to 
the  letter, — for  which  she  was  already 
well  paid,  and  was  like  to  be  better  paid ; 
because  Armour  had  arranged  that  she 
should  continue  to  be  with  his  wife  after 


1' 


[    I 


i'l 


•  1 
1 


'ill 


I 


m 


'  -i 

Ml! 


I 


•'     I 


I    I 


22 


Zbc  translation  of  a  Savage. 


they  got  to  England.  She  understood  well 
the  language  of  Lali's  tribe,  and  because 
Lali's  English  was  limited  she  would  be 
indispensable  in  England. 

Mackenzie,  therefore,  had  responsibility, 
and  if  she  was  not  elated  over  it,  she  still 
knew  the  importance  of  her  position,  and 
had  enough  practical  vanity  to  make  her 
an  efficient  servant  and  companion.  She 
already  felt  that  she  had  got  her  position 
in  life,  from  which  she  was  to  go  out  no 
more  for  ever.  She  had  been  brought  up 
in  the  shadow  of  Alnwick  Castle,  and  she 
knew  what  was  due  to  her  charge — by 
other  people;  herself  only  should  have 
liberty  with  her.  She  was  taking  Lali  to 
the  home  of  General  Armour,  and  that 
must  bo  kept  constantly  before  her  mind. 
Therefore,  from  the  day  they  set  foot  on 
the  Aphrodite^  she  kept  her  place  beside 
Mrs.  Armour,  sitting  with  her, — they 
walked  very  little, — and  scarcely  ever 
speaking,  either  to  her  or  to  the  curious 
passengers.  Presently  the  passengers  be- 
came more  inquisitive,  and  made  many 
attempts  at  being  friendly ;  but  these  re- 
ceived little  encouragement.     It  had  be- 


i 


B  BitKcult  Situation* 


23 


come  known  who  the  Indian  girl  was,  and 
many  wild  tales  went  about  as  to  her  mar- 
riage with  Francis  Armour.  Now  it  was 
maintained  she  had  saved  his  life  at  an 
outbreak  of  her  tribe;  again,  that  she  had 
found  him  dying  in  the  woods  and  had 
nursed  him  back  to  life  and  health;  yet 
again,  that  she  was  a  chieftainess,  a  suc- 
cessful claimant  against  the  Hudson's  Bay 
Company — and  so  on. 

There  were  several  on  board  who  knew 
the  Armours  well  by  name,  and  two  who 
knew  them  personally.  One  was  Mr. 
Edward  Lambert,  a  barrister  of  the  Mid- 
dle Temple,  and  the  other  was  Mrs. 
Townley,  a  w4dow,  a  member  of  a  well- 
known  Hertfordshire  family,  who,  on  a 
pleasant  journey  in  Scotland,  had  met, 
conquered,  and  married  a  wealthy  young 
American,  and  had  been  left  alone  in  the 
world,  by  no  means  portionless,  eighteen 
months  before.  Lambert  knew  Richard 
Armour  well,  and  w^hen,  from  Francis 
Armour's  solicitor,  w4th  whom,  he  was 
acquainted,  he  heard,  just  before  they 
started,  who  the  Indian  girl  was,  he  was 
greatly  shocked  and  sorry.     He  guessed  at 


.A' 


24 


Jibe  ^translation  of  a  Savage. 


; 


once  the  motive,  the  madness,  of  this  mar- 
riage. But  he  kept  his  information  and 
his  opinions  mostly  to  himself,  except  in 
so  far  as  it  seemed  only  due  to  friendship 
to  contradict  the  numberless  idle  stories 
going  about.  After  the  first  day  at  sea  he 
came  to  know  Mrs.  Townley,  and  when  he 
discovered  that  they  had  many  mutual 
friends  and  that  she  knew  the  Armours, 
he  spoke  a  little  more  freely  to  her  re- 
garding the  Indian  wife,  and  told  her  what 
he  believed  was  the  cause  of  the  marriage. 
Mrs.  Townley  was  a  woman — a  girl — of 
uncommon  gentleness  of  disposition,  and, 
in  spite  of  her  troubles,  inclined  to  view 
life  with  a  sunny  eye.  She  had  known  of 
Frank  Armour's  engagement  with  Miss 
Julia  Sherwood,  but  she  had  never  heard 
the  sequel.  If  this  was  the  sequel — well, 
it  had  to  be  faced.  But  she  was  almost 
tremulous  with  sympathy  when  she  re- 
membered Mrs.  Armour,  and  Frank's  gay, 
fashionable  sister,  Marion,  and  contem- 
plated the  arrival  of  this  Indian  girl  at 
Greyhope.  She  had  always  liked  Frank 
Armour,  but  this  made  her  angry  with 
him ;  for,  on  second  thoughts,  she  was  not 


H 


B  Difficult  Sftuatfon. 


25 


more  sorry  for  him  and  for  his  people  than 
for  Lali,  the  wife.  She  had  the  true  in- 
stinct of  womanhood,  and  s!ie  supposed 
that  a  heathen  like  this  could  have  feelings 
to  be  hurt  and  a  life  to  be  wounded  as 
herself  or  another.  At  least  she  saw  what 
was  possible  in  the  future  when  this  Indian 
girl  came  to  understand  her  position, — only 
to  be  accomplished  by  contact  with  the 
new  life,  so  different  from  her  past.  Both 
she  and  Lambert  decided  that  she  was 
very  fine-looking,  notwithstanding  her 
costume.  She  was  slim  and  well  built, 
with  modest  bust  and  shapely  feet  and 
ankles.  Her  e3'es  were  large,  meditative, 
and  intelligent,  her  features  distinguished. 
She  was  a  goodly  product  of  her  race,  being 
descended  from  a  line  of  chiefs  and  chief- 
tainesses — broken  only  in  the  case  of  her 
grandfather,  as  has  been  mentioned.  Her 
hands  (the  two  kindly  inquisitors  decided) 
were  almost  her  best  point.  They  were 
perfectly  made,  slim  3^et  plump,  the  fingers 
tapering,  the  wrist  supple.  Mrs.  Townley 
then  and  there  decided  that  the  girl  had 
possibilities.  But  here  she  was,  an  Indian, 
with   few   signs  of  civilisation  or  of  that 


til 


V 


( , 


i 


<tff 


;  r 


,i 


II 


26 


XLbc  (Tranelation  of  a  Savage. 


breeding  which  seems  to  white  people  the 
only  breeding  fit  for  earth  or  heaven. 

Mrs.  Townley  did  not  need  Lambert's 
suggestion  that  she  should  try  and  ap- 
proach the  girl,  make  friends  with  her, 
and  prepare  her  in  some  slight  degree  for 
the  strange  career  before  her. 

Mrs.  Townley  had  an  infinite  amount  of 
tact.  She  knew  it  was  best  to  approach 
the  attendant  first.  This  she  did,  and,  to 
the  surprise  of  other  lady-passengers,  re- 
ceived no  rebuff.  Her  advance  was  not, 
however,  rapid.  Mackenzie  had  had  her 
instructions.  When  she  found  that  Mrs. 
Townley  knew  Francis  Armour  and  his 
people,  she  thawed  a  little  more,  and  then, 
very  hesitatingly,  she  introduced  her  to 
the  Indian  wife.  Mrs.  Townley  smiled 
her  best, — and  there  were  many  who  knew 
how  attractive  she  could  be  at  such  a  mo- 
ment. There  was  a  slight  pause,  in  which 
Lali  looked  at  her  meditatively,  earnestly, 
and  then  those  beautiful  wild  fingers 
glided  out,  and  caught  her  hand,  and  held 
it;  but  she  spoke  no  word.  She  only 
looked  inquiringly,  seriously,  at  her  new- 
found friend,  and  presently  dropped  the 


I'l 


B  HXfRcult  Sttuation. 


blanket  away  from  her,  and  sat  up  firmly, 
as  though  she  felt  she  was  not  altogether 
an  alien  now,  and  had  a  right  to  hold  her- 
self proudly  among  white  people,  as  she 
did  in  her  own  country  and  with  her  own 
tribe,  who  had  greatly  admired  her.  Cer- 
tainly Mrs.  Townley  could  find  no  fault 
with  the  woman  as  an  Indian.  She  had 
taste,  carried  her  clothes  well,  and  was 
superbly  fresh  in  appearance,  though  her 
hair  still  bore  very  slight  traces  of  the 
grease  which  even  the  most  aristocratic 
Indians  use. 

But  Lali  would  not  talk.  Mrs.  Townley 
was  anxious  that  the  girl  should  be  dressed 
in  European  costume,  and  offered  to  lend 
and  rearrange  dresses  of  her  own,  but  she 
came  in  collision  with  Mr.  Armour's  in- 
structions. So  she  had  to  assume  a  merely 
kind  and  comforting  attitude.  The  wife 
had  not  the  slightest  idea  where  she  was 
going,  and  even  when  Mackenzie,  at  Mrs. 
Townley's  oft-repeated  request,  explained 
very  briefly  and  unpicturesquely,  she  only 
looked  incredulous  or  unconcerned.  Yet 
the  ship,  its  curious  passengers,  the  dining- 
saloon,  the  music,  the  sea,   and  all,   had 


'Ml 


1 


■I 

\n 


iff 
iiil 


If 


\ 


H 


i      ill 

lilii 


28 


ITbe  ^ranslatton  of  a  Savage. 


j^iven  hcT  siip^j^estions  of  what  was  to 
come.  Tlicy  had  ex])cctcd  that  at  table 
she  would  be  awkward  and  ignorant  to  a 
deg^ree.  But  she  had  at  times  eaten  at 
the  trader's  table  at  Fort  Charles,  and  had 
learned  how  to  use  a  knife  and  fork.  She 
had  also  been  a  favourite  with  the  trader's 
wife,  who  had  taught  her  very  many  civil- 
ised things.  Her  English,  though  far 
from  abundant,  was  good.  Those,  there- 
fore, who  were  curious  and  rude  enough 
to  stare  at  her  were  probably  disappointed 
to  find  that  she  ate  like  "  any  Christom 
man." 

*'  How  do  you  think  the  Armours  will 
receive  her?"  said  Lambert  to  Mrs.  Town- 
ley,  of  whose  judgment  on  short  acquaint- 
ance he  had  come  to  entertain  a  high 
opinion. 

Mrs.  Townley  had  a  pretty  way  of  put- 
ting her  head  to  one  side  and  speaking 
very  piquantly.  She  had  had  it  as  a  girl ; 
she  had  not  lost  it  as  a  woman, — any  more 
than  she  had  lost  a  soft  little  spontaneous 
laugh  which  was  one  of  her  unusual 
charms, — for  few  women  can  laugh  au- 
dibly with  effect.     She  laughed  very  softly 


i.i 


1 


a  2)imcult  Situation. 


29 


now,  and,  her  sense  of  humour  supervening 
for  the  moment,  she  said:  "Really,  you 
have  asked  me  a  conundrum.  I  fancy  I 
see  Mrs.  Armour's  face  when  she  gets  the 
news, — at  the  breakfast-table,  of  course, 
— and  gives  a  little  shriek,  and  says,  'Gen- 
eral! oh,  general!*  But  it  is  all  very 
shocking^  you  know,"  she  added,  in  a 
lower  voice.  "  Still,  I  think  they  will  re- 
ceive her  and  do  the  best  they  can  for  her ; 
because,  you  see,  there  she  is,  married 
hard  and  fast.  She  bears  the  Armour 
name,  and  is  likely  to  make  them  all  very 
unhappy  indeed,  if  she  determines  to  re- 
taliate upon  them  for  any  neglect." 

"Yes?  But  how  to  retaliate,  Mrs. 
Townley?"  Lambert  had  not  a  suggestive 
mind. 

"Well,  for  instance,  suppose  they  sent 
her  away  into  seclusion, — with  Frank's 
consent,  another  serious  question, — and 
she  should  take  the  notion  to  fly  her  re- 
tirement, and  appear  inopportunely  at 
some  social  function,  clothed  as  she  is 
now!  I  fancy  her  blanket  would  be  a  wet 
one  in  such  a  case — if  you  will  pardon  the 
little  joke." 
3 


,  ( 


"i 


Fii 


i 


liO 


Cbe  XTraniJlation  of  a  Savage. 


Lambert  si.2^hc(l.  "Poor  Frank!  poor 
devil!"  he  said,  almost  l^cneath  his  breath. 

"And  wherefore  poor  I 'rank?  Do  you 
think  he  or  the  Armours  of  Greyhope  are 
the  only  ones  at  stake  in  this?  What 
about  this  poor  girl?  Just  think  why  he 
married  her, — if  our  suspicions  are  right, 
— and  then  imagine  her  feelings  when  she 
wakes  to  the  truth  over  there,  as  some 
time  she  is  sure  to  do!" 

Then  Lambert  began  to  see  the  matter 
in  a  different  light,  and  his  sympathy  for 
Francis  Armour  grew  less  as  his  pity  for 
the  girl  increased.  In  fact,  the  day  be- 
fore they  got  ^o  Liverpool  he  swore  at 
Armour  more  than  once,  and  was  anxious 
concerning  the  reception  of  the  heathen 
wife  by  her  white  relatives. 

Kad  he  been  present  at  a  certain  scene 
at  Greyhope  a  day  or  two  before,  he  would 
have  been  still  more  anxious.  It  was  the 
custom,  at  breakfast,  for  Mrs.  Armour  to 
open  her  husband's  letters  and  read  them 
while  he  was  engaged  with  his  newspaper, 
and  hand  to  him  afterwards  those  that 
were  important.  This  morning  Marion 
noticed  a  letter  from  Frank  amongst  the 


B  Dimcult  Situ  Uton. 


HI 


pile,  and,  without  a  word,  pounced  upon 
it.  She  was  curious — as  any  woman  would 
be — to  see  how  he  t(M)k  Miss  vSherwood's 
action.  Her  father  was  deep  in  his  paper 
at  the  time.  Her  mother  was  reading 
other  letters.  Marion  read  the  first  few 
lines  with  a  feeling  of  almost  painful  won- 
der, the  words  were  so  curious,  cynical, 
and  cold. 

Richard  sat  opposite  her.  He  also  was 
engajj^ed  with  his  paper,  but,  chancing  to 
glance  up,  he  saw  that  she  was  becoming 
very  pale,  and  that  the  letter  trembled  in 
her  fingers.  Being  a  little  short-sighted, 
he  was  not  near  enough  to  see  the  hand- 
writing. He  did  not  speak  yet.  He 
watched.  Presently,  seeing  her  grow 
more  excited,  he  touched  her  foot  imder 
the  table.  She  looked  up,  and  caught  his 
eye.  She  gasped  slightly.  She  gave  him 
a  warning  look,  and  turned  away  from  her 
mother.  Then  she  went  on  reading  to 
the  bitter  end.  Presently  a  little  cry 
escaped  her  against  her  will.  At  that  her 
mother  looked  up,  but  she  only  saw  her 
daughter's  back,  as  she  rose  hurriedly 
from  the  table,  saying  that  she  would  re- 


f' 


? 


1 

1 

^     ♦ 


HI 


i'i 


Ml, 

■J    ill  >v 


I 


33 


Zbc  Cranalatton  of  a  Saraflc, 


turn  ill  a  moment.  Mrs.  Armour,  how- 
ever, had  been  startled.  She  knew  that 
Marion  had  been  reading  a  letter,  and, 
with  a  mother's  in.stinct,  her  thoughts 
were  instantly  on  Frank.  She  spoke 
(|uiekly,  almost  sharply:  "Marion,  eome 
here." 

Richard  had  risen.  He  came  round  the 
table,  and,  as  the  girl  obeyed  her  mother, 
took  the  letter  from  her  fingers  and  has- 
tily glanced  over  it.  Mrs.  Armour  came 
forwards  and  took  her  daughter's  arm. 
"Marion,"  she  said,  "there  is  something 
wrong — with  Frank.     What  is  it?" 

General  Armour  was  now  looking  up  at 
them  all,  curiously,  questioningly,  through 
his  glasses,  his  paper  laid  down,  his  hands 
resting  on  the  table. 

Marion  could  not  answer.  She  was  sick 
with  regret,  vexation,  and  shame:  at  the 
first  flush  death — for  Frank — had  been 
preferable  to  this.  She  had  a  considera- 
ble store  of  vanity;  she  was  not  very  phi- 
losophical. Besides,  she  was  not  married ; 
and  what  Captain  Vidall,  her  devoted  ad- 
mirer and  possible  husband,  would  think 
of    this    heathenish    alliance    was  not   a 


in 


B  IDlfficult  Situation. 


88 


cliccrful  thought  to  her.  She  choked 
down  a  sob,  and  waved  her  hand  towards 
Richard  to  answer  for  her.  He  was  pale 
too,  but  cool.  He  understood  the  case 
instantly;  he  made  np  his  mind  instantly 
also  as  to  what  ought  to  be — must  be — 
done. 

"Well,  mother,"  he  said,  "it  is  about 
Frank.  But  he  is  all  right;  that  is,  he  is 
alive  and  well — in  body.  But  he  has  ar- 
ranged a  hateful  little  embarrassment  for 
us.  .   .   .   He  is  married." 

"Married!"  said  his  mother,  faintly. 
"Oh,  poor  Lady  Agnes!" 

Marion  sniffed  a  little  viciously  at  this. 

"Married!  Married!"  said  his  father. 
"Well,  what  about  it?  eh?  what  about  it?" 

The  mother  wrung  her  hands.  "Oh,  I 
know  it  is  something  dreadful — dreadful ! 
he  has  married  some  horrible  wild  person, 
or  something. " 

Richard,  miserable  as  he  was,  remained 
calm.  "Well,"  said  he,  "I  don't  know 
about  her  being  horrible;  Frank  is  silent 
on  that  point;  but  she  is  wild  enough, — a 
wild  Indian,  in  fact!" 

"Indian!    Indian!      Good    God,    a    red 


Nil 

I 


llh:    1 


I 


)  ::  . 


li 


I! 


84 


Ubc  translation  of  a  Savage, 


i 


ni.^i^t'f!"  cried  General  Armour,  harshly, 
startiii^i;"  to  his  feet. 

"An  Indian!  a  wild  Indian!"  Mrs.  Ar- 
mour whispered,  faintly,  as  she  dropped 
into  a  chair. 

*'And  she'll  be  here  in  two  or  three 
days!"  lluttered  Marion  hysterically. 

Meanwhile  Richard  had  hastily  picked 
up  the  Times.  "  She  is  due  here  the  day 
after  to-morrow,"  he  said,  deliberately. 
'*  l^'^rank  is  as  decisive  as  he  is  rash.  Well, 
it's  a  melancholy  tit-for-tat. " 

•'What  do  you  mean  by  tit-for-tat?" 
cried  his  father,  angrily, 

"CMi,  1  mean  that — that  we  tried  to 
hasten  lulia's  marriaije — with  the  other 
fellow,  and  he  is  giving-  us  one  in  return; 
and  you  will  all  agree  that  it's  a  pretty 
permanent  one. " 

The  old  soldier  recovered  himself,  and 
w.is  hesid.e  Iris  wife  in  an  instant.  He 
took  lier  hand.  "'Don't  fret  about  it. 
wife,"  lie  s.iid. :  *'  i:"s  an  ugly  business,  but 
we  must  put  up  with  it.  The  boy  was  out 
of  his  nead.  We  are  old  now.  my  dear. 
but  there  was  a  time  when  we  should  have 

^  •  ■»     -  • 


as  Frank. 


B  Difttcult  S(tuation. 


35 


— thouj^h  not  in  the  same  fasliion,  per- 
haps,— not  in  the  same  fashion!"'  The 
old  man  pressed  his  lips  hard  to  keep  down 
his  emotion. 

*'(^h,  how  eould  he!  liow  cr,iild  lie!" 
said  his  mother:  "we  meant  everythin;^ 
for  the  best." 

*'  It  is  always  danj^erous  business  med- 
dling with  lovers'  affairs,"  rejoined  Rich- 
a.J.  "  Lovers  take  themselves  very  seri- 
ously indeed,  and — well,  here  the  thing 
is!  Now,  who  will  go  and  fetch  her  from 
Liverpool? — I  should  say  that  both  my 
father  and  my  mother  ought  to  go." 

Thus  Richard  took  it  for  granted  that 
they  would  receive  Frank's  Indian  v/ife 
into  their  home.  He  intended  that,  so  far 
as  he  was  concerned,  there  should  be  no 
doubt  upon  the  question  from  the  begin- 
ning. 

"Never!  she  shall  never  conr/e  here!" 
saia  Marion,  vrith  flashing  eyes; — "a  comi- 
mon  squaw,  with  greasy  hair,  and  blankets, 
and  big  mouth,  and  Vjlack  teeth,  v/ho  eats 
with  her  fingers  and  grunts!  If  she  does, 
if  she  is  brought  to  Greyhope,  I  v/ill  never 
show  my  face  in  the  world  again.     Frank 


4^ 


{■i  ifm 


til  f  ;  [  i 


?  I 


-  It, 


*  i  f 


:ii 


36 


^be  translation  ot  a  Savaoe. 


married  the  animal :  why  does  he  ship  her 
home  to  us?  Why  didn't  he  come  with 
her?  Why  does  he  not  take  he:  to  a  home 
of  his  own?  Why  should  he  send  her  here 
to  turn  our  house  into  a  menagerie?" 

Marion  drew  her  skirt  back,  as  if  the 
common  squaw,  with  her  blankets  and 
grease,  was  at  that  moment  near  her. 

"Well,  you  see,"  continued  Richard, 
"  that  is  just  it.  As  I  said,  Frank  arranged 
this  little  complication  w4th  a  trifling 
amount  of  malice.  No  doubt  he  didn't 
come  with  her,  because  he  wished  to  test 
the  family  loyalty  and  hospitality;  but  a 
postscript  to  this  letter  says  that  his  solic- 
itor has  instructions  to  meet  his  wife  at 
Liverpool  and  bring  her  on  here  in  case 
we  fail  to  show  her  proper  courtesy." 

General  Armour  here  spoke.  "  He  has 
carried  the  war  of  retaliation  very  far  in- 
deed, but  men  do  mad  things  when  their 
blood  is  up,  as  I  have  seen  often.  That 
doesn't  alter  our  clear  duty  in  the  matter. 
If  the  \,oman  were  bad,  or  shameful,  it 
would  be  a  different  thing;  if " 


Marion   interrupted:    "She   has   ridden 
bareback    across     the     continent     like    a 


1  ' 


B  Difficult  Sttuatton. 


37 


jockey, — like  a  common  jockey, — and  she 
wears  a  blanket,  and  she  doesn't  know  a 
word  Oi  English,  and  she  will  sit  on  the 
floor!" 

"Well,"  said  her  father,  "all  these 
things  are  not  sins,  and  she  must  be  taught 
better." 

"Joseph,  how  can  you!"  said  Mrs.  Ar- 
mour, indignantly.  "  She  cannot,  she 
shall  not  come  here.  Think  of  Marion! 
think  of  our  position !" 

She  hid  her  troubled  tear-stained  face 
behind  her  handkerchief.  At  the  same 
time  she  grasped  her  husband's  hand. 
She  knew  that  he  was  right.  She  hon- 
oured him  in  her  heart  for  the  position  he 
had  taken,  but  she  could  not  resist  the 
natural  impulse  of  a  woman,  where  her 
taste  and  convention  were  shocked. 

The  old  man  was  very  pale,  but  there 
was  no  mistaking  his  determination.  He 
had  been  more  indignant  than  any  of  them 
at  first,  but  he  had  an  unusual  sense  of 
justice  when  he  got  face  to  face  with  it, 
as  Richard  had  here  helped  him  to  do,, 
"  We  do  not  know  thai;  the  woman  has 
done  any  wrong,"  he  said.     "As  for  our 


\ 

i. 


.i  'I 
•I 


!;>  i 


i  1 


ll 


38 


Zbc  (Translation  of  a  Savage. 


name  and  position,  they,  thank  God!  are 
where  a  mad  marriag^e  cannot  imseat  them. 
We  have  had  much  prosperity  in  the  world, 
my  wife ;  we  have  had  neither  death  nor 
dishonour;  we " 

"If  this  isn't  dishonour,  father,  what 
is?"  Marion  flashed  out. 

He  answered  calmly.  "  My  daughter,  it 
is  a  great  misfortune,  it  will  probably  be 
a  life-long  trial,  but  it  is  not  necessarily 
dishonour." 

"  You  never  can  make  a  scandal  less  by 
trying  to  hide  it,"  said  Richard,  backing 
up  his  father.  "  It  is  all  pretty  awkward, 
but  I  dare  say  we  shall  get  some  amuse- 
ment out  of  it  in  the  end." 

"  Richard,"  said  his  mother  through  her 
tears,  "you  are  flippant  and  unkind!" 

"Indeed,  mother,"  was  his  reply,  "I 
never  was  more  serious  in  my  life.  When 
I  spoke  of  amusement,  I  meant  comedy 
merely,  not  fun, — the  thing  that  looks  like 
tragedy  and  has  a  happy  ending.  That  is 
what  I  mean,  mother,  nothing  more." 

"  You  are  always  so  very  deep,  Richard, " 
remarked  Marion,  ironically,  "and  care  so 
very  little  how  the  rest  of  us  feel  about 


%• 


B  Dittfcult  Sttuation. 


39 


things.  You  have  no  family  pride.  If 
you  had  married  a  squaw,  we  shouldn't 
have  been  surprised.  You  could  have 
camped  in  the  grounds  with  your  wild 
woman,  and  never  have  been  missed — by 
the  world,"  she  hastened  to  add,  for  she 
saw  a  sudden  pain  in  his  face. 

He  turned  from  them  all  a  little  wearily, 
and  limped  over  to  the  window.  He 
stood  looking  out  into  the  limes  where  he 
and  Frank  had  played  when  boys.  He 
put  his  finger  up,  his  unhandsome  finger, 
and  caught  away  some  moisture  from  his 
eyes.  He  did  not  dare  to  let  them  see  his 
face,  nor  yet  to  speak.  Marion  had  cut 
deeper  than  she  knew,  and  he  would  carry 
the  woimd  for  many  a  day  before  it  healed. 

But  his  sister  felt  instantly  how  cruel  vShe 
had  been,  as  she  saw  him  limp  away,  and 
caught  sight  of  the  bowed  shoulders  and  the 
prematurely  gray  hair.  Her  heart  smote 
her.  She  ran  over,  and  impulsively  put  her 
hands  on  his  shoulder.  "Oh,  Dick,"  she 
said,  "forgive  me,  Dick!  I  didn't  mean 
it.     I  was  angry  and  foolish  and  hateful." 

He  took  one  of  her  hands  as  it  rested 
on  his   shoulder,  she  standing  partly  be- 


il 


if! 


;t  N 


111 


'  ■' 


I 


;1i 


h  \m 


!lf 


" 


il 


^1{ 


] 


* 


40 


XLbc  C:ranslation  of  a  Savage. 


t ,; 


hind  him,  and  raised  it  to  his  lips,  but  he 
did  not  turn  to  her;  he  could  not. 

"  It  is  all  right— all  right,"  he  said;  "  it 
doesn't  make  any  difference.  Let  us  think 
of  Frank  and  what  we  have  got  to  do.  Let 
us  stand  together,  Marion j  that  is  best." 

But  her  tears  were  dropping  on  his  shoul- 
der, as  her  forehead  rested  on  her  hand. 
He  knew  now  that,  whatever  Frank's  wife 
was,  she  would  not  have  an  absolute  enemy 
here ;  for  when  Marion  cried  her  heart  was 
soft.  She  was  clay  in  the  hands  of  the 
potter  whom  we  call  Mercy, — more  often 
a  stranger  to  the  hearts  of  women  than  of 
men.  At  the  other  side  of  the  room  also 
the  father  and  mother,  tearless  now, 
watched  these  two;  and  the  mother  saw 
her  duty  better  and  with  less  rebellious- 
ness. vShe  had  felt  it  from  the  first,  but, 
she  could  not  bring  her  mind  to  do  it 
They  held  each  other's  hands  in  silence, 
Presently  General  Armour  said,  "  Richard, 
your  mother  and  I  will  go  to  Liverpool  to 
meet  our  son's  wife." 

Marion  shuddered  a  little,  and  her  hands 
closed  on  Richard's  shouder,  but  she  said 
nothing. 


T 


CHAPTER   III. 


OUT    OF    THE    NORTH. 


)T  was  a  beautiful  day, — which 

was  so  much  in  favour  of  Mrs. 

Frank  Armour  in  relation  to 

her   husband's   people.     Gen- 
eral Armour  and  his  wife  had  come  down 

from  London  by  the  latest  train  possible, 
that  their  suspense  at  Liverpool  might  be 
short.  They  said  little  to  each  other,  but 
when  they  did  speak  it  was  of  things  very 
different  from  the  skeleton  which  they  ex- 
pected to  put  into  the  family  cupboard 
presently.  Each  was  trying  to  spare  the 
other.  It  was  very  touching.  They  nat- 
urally looked  upon  the  matter  in  its  most 
unpromising  light,  because  an  Indian  was 
an  Indian,  and  this  unknown  savage  from 
Fort  Charles  was  in  violent  contrast  to 
such  desirable  persons  as  Lady  Agnes 
Martling.  Not  that  the  Armours  were 
zealous  for  mere  money  and  title,  but  the 

41 


i 

Ti 

■:     1:  ^i 

•m  Ji 

I 

> 

if! 

\  n 

i'i' 
ill 

■  '  ■   , 
,  ( 

1 

;    1 
i 

i     ' 

r 
1 

Hi' 


a 


},. 


43 


Zbc  translation  ot  a  Savage. 


\- 


i 


•thing  itself  was  altogether  a  propos,  as  Mrs, 
Armour  had  more  naively  than  correctly 
put  it.  The  general,  whose  knowledge  of 
character  and  the  circumstances  of  life 
was  considerable,  had  worked  out  the 
thing  with  much  accuracy.  He  had  de- 
clared to  Richard,  in  their  quiet  talk  upon 
the  subject,  that  Frank  must  have  been 
anything  but  sober  when  he  did  it.  He 
had  previously  called  it  a  policy  of  retali- 
ation ;  so  that  now  he  was  very  near  the 
truth.  When  they  arrived  at  the  dock  at 
Liverpool,  the  Aphrodite  was  just  making 
into  the  harbour. 

*'Egad,"  said  General  Armour  to  him- 
self, "  Sebastopol  was  easier  than  this;  for 
fighting  I  know,  and  being  peppered  I 
know,  by  Jews,  Greeks,  infidels,  and  here- 
tics ;  but  to  take  a  savage  to  my  arms  and 
do  for  her  what  her  godfathers  and  god- 
mothers never  did,  is  worse  than  the 
devil's  dance  at  Delhi." 

What  Mrs.  Armour,  who  was  not  quite 
so  definite  as  her  husband,  thought,  it 
would  be  hard  to  tell ;  but  probably  grief 
for,  and  indignation  at,  her  son,  were 
uppermost  in  her  mind.     She  had  quite 


I 


©ut  ot  tbe  "Wortb. 


43 


determined  upon  her  course.  None  could 
better  carry  that  high  neutral  look  of 
social  superiority  than  she. 

Please  heaven,  she  said  to  herself,  no 
one  should  see  that  her  equanimity  was 
shaken.  They  had  brought  one  servant 
with  them,  who  had  been  gravely  and  yet 
conventionally  informed  that  his  young 
master's  wife,  an  Indian  chieftainess,  was 
expected.  There  are  few  family  troubles 
but  find  their  way  to  servants'  hall  with 
an  uncomfortable  speed;  for,  whether  or 
not  stone  walls  have  ears,  certainly  men- 
servants  and  maid-servants  have  eyes  that 
serve  for  ears  and  ears  that  do  more  than 
their  bounden  duty.  Boulter,  the  foot- 
man, knew  his  business.  When  informed 
of  the  coming  of  Mistress  Francis  Armour, 
the  Indian  chieftainess,  his  face  was  abso- 
lutely expressionless ;  his  "  Yessir  "  was  as 
mechanical  as  usual  On  the  dock  he  was 
marble — indifferent.  When  the  passen- 
gers began  to  land,  he  shovved  no  excite- 
ment. He  was  decorously  alert.  When 
the  crucial  moment  came,  he  was  imper- 
turbable. Boulter  was  an  excellent  ser- 
vant.    So  said  Edward  Lambert  to  him- 


I   ):! 


ii 


r  •  ! 


Ii 

* 


■    1 

!        i 

i 

.  i 
J-- 

1 

i 

\ 
■  1 

1    "*.  ( 

•        i 

i  *■' 

■ 

^  t 

sf 

i 


i|   i 


'») 


44 


Zbc  TTranelattoti  ot  a  Sara^je. 


self  after  the  event;  so,  likewise,  said 
Mrs.  Tow  nicy  to  herself  when  the  thing 
was  over;  so  declared  General  Armour 
many  a  time  after,  and  once  very  em- 
phatically just  before  he  raised  Boulter's 
wages. 

As  the  boat  neared  Liverpool,  Lambert 
and  Mrs.  Townley  grew  nervous.  The 
truth  regarding  the  Indian  wife  had  be- 
come known  among  the  passengers,  and 
most  were  very  curious, — some  in  a 
well-bred  fashion,  some  intrusively,  vul- 
garly. Mackenzie,  Lali's  companion, 
like  Boulter,  was  expressionless  in  face. 
She  had  her  duty  to  do,  paid  for  liberally, 
and  she  would  do  it.  Lali  might  have 
had  a  more  presentable  and  dignified  at- 
tendant, but  not  one  more  worthy.  It 
was  noticeable  that  the  captain  of  the  ship 
and  all  the  officers  had  been  markedly 
courteous  to  Mrs.  Armour  throughout  the 
voyage,  but,  to  their  credit,  not  ostenta- 
tiousl)^  so.  When  the  vessel  was  brought 
to  anchor  and  the  passengers  were  being 
put  upon  the  tender,  the  captain  came  and 
made  his  respectful  adieus,  as  though  Lali 
were  a  lady  of  title  in  her  own  right,  and 


'^i 


Cut  Of  tbc  "Wortb. 


45 


not  an  Indian  girl  married  to  a  man  act- 
ing under  the  inlluence  of  brandy  and 
malice.  General  Armour  and  Mrs.  Ar- 
m.our  were  always  grateful  to  Lambert  and 
Mrs.  Townley  for  the  part  they  played  in 
this  desperate  little  comedy.  They  stood 
still  and  watchful  as  the  passengers  came 
ashore  one  by  one.  They  saw  that  they 
were  the  centre  of  tmusual  interest,  but 
General  Armour  was  used  to  bearing  him- 
self with  a  grim  kind  of  indifference  in 
public,  and  his  wife  was  calm,  and  so 
somewhat  disappointed  those  who  prob- 
ably expected  the  old  officer  and  his  wife 
to  be  distressed.  Frank  Armour's  solicitor 
was  also  there,  but,  with  good  taste,  he 
held  aloof.  The  two  needed  all  their 
courage,  however,  when  they  saw  a  figure 
in  buckskin  and  blanket  step  upon  the 
deck,  attended  by  a  very  ordinary,  austere, 
and  shabbily  dressed  Scotswoman.  But 
immediately  behind  them  were  Edward 
Lambert  and  Mrs.  Townley,  a.\d  these, 
with  their  simple  tact,  naturalness,  and 
freedom  from  any  sort  of  embarrassment, 
acted  as  foils,  and  relieved  the  situa- 
tion. 

4 


•1^: 


P« 


'■ 


f: 

J.    ! 

lit 


Hi 


'. 


I 


til 


i 


11" 


1 
I 


< , 


U 


'i-:\ 


I   i<l 


in  ffll 


» i 


It 


46 


TTbc  TTranslatfon  of  a  Savage. 


General  Armour  advanced,  hat  in  hand. 
"You  are  my  son's  wife?"  he  said  courte- 
ously to  this  being  in  a  blanket. 

She  k)oked  up  and  shook  her  head 
slightly,  for  she  did  not  quite  understand; 
but  she  recognised  his  likeness  to  her  hus- 
band, and  presently  she  smiled  up  mus- 
ingly. Mackenzie  repeated  to  her  what 
General  Armour  had  said.  She  nodded 
now,  a  flash  of  pleasure  lighting  up  her 
face,  and  she  slid  out  her  beautiful  hand 
to  him.  The  general  took  it  and  pressed 
it  mechanically,  his  lips  twitching  slightly. 
He  pressed  it  far  harder  than  he  meant, 
for  his  feelings  were  at  tension.  She 
winced  slightly,  and  involuntarily  thrust 
out  her  other  hand,  as  if  to  relieve  his 
pressure.  As  she  did  so  the  blanket  fell 
away  from  her  head  and  shoulders.  Lam- 
bert, with  excellent  intuition,  caught  it, 
and  threw  it  across  his  arm.  Then, 
quickly,  and  without  embarrassment,  he 
and  Mrs.  Townley  greeted  General  Ar- 
mour, who  returned  the  greetings  gravely, 
but  in  a  singular  confidential  tone,  which 
showed  his  gratitude.  Then  he  raised 
his  hat  again  to  Lali,   and  said,   "Come 


i)' 


©ut  of  tbc  Vlortb. 


47 


and  let  mc  introduce  you — to  your  hus- 
band's mother." 

The  falling  back  of  that  blanket  had 
saved  the  situation  ;  for  when  the  girl  stood 
without  it  in  her  buckskin  garments  there 
was  a  dignity  in  her  bearing  which  carried 
off  the  bizarre  event.  There  was  timidity 
in  her  face,  and  yet  a  kind  of  pride  too, 
though  she  was  only  a  savage.  The  ease, 
even  at  this  critical  moment,  did  not  seem 
quite  hopeless.  When  they  came  to  Mrs. 
Armour,  Lali  shrank  awa.  timidly  from 
the  look  in  the  mother's  eyes,  and,  shiver- 
ing slightly,  looked  round  for  her  blanket. 
But  Lambert  had  deftly  passed  it  on  to 
the  footman.  Presently  Mrs.  Armour 
took  both  the  girl's  hands  in  hers  (perhaps 
she  did  it  because  the  eyes  of  the  public 
were  on  her,  but  that  is  neither  here  nor 
there — she  did  it),  and  kissed  her  on  the 
cheek.  Then  they  moved  away  to  a  closed 
carriage. 

And  that  was  the  second  act  in  Frank 
Armour's  comedy  of  errors. 


tJ 


tl 


HI 


.1: 


ii 


CHAPTER   IV. 


IN    THE    NAME    OF    THE    FAMILY. 


»HE  journey  from  Liverpool  to 
Greyhope  was  passed  in  com- 
parative silence.  The  Armours 
had  a  compartmen  to  them- 
selves, and  they  made  the  Indian  girl  as 
comfortable  as  possible,  without  self-con- 
sciousness, without  any  artificial  polite- 
ness. So  far,  what  they  had  done  was  a 
matter  of  duty,  not  of  will ;  but  they  had 
done  their  duty  naturally  all  their  lives, 
and  it  vas  natirral  to  them  now.  They 
had  no  personal  feelings  towards  the  girl 
one  way  or  another,  as  yet.  It  was  trying 
to  them  that  people  stared  into  the  com- 
partment at  different  stations.  It  pres- 
ently dawned  upon  General  Armour  that 
it  might  also  be  trying  to  their  charge. 
Neither  he  nor  his  wife  had  taken  into  ac- 
count the  possibility  of  the  girl  having 
feelings  to  be  hurt.     But  he  had  noticed 

48 


i       i" 


1,      I     iiiy 


fin  tbe  IFlame  ot  tbe  jFamll^. 


49 


Lali  shrink  visibly  and  flush  slightly  when 
some  one  stared  harder  than  usual ;  and 
this  troubled  him.  It  opened  up  a  possi- 
bility. He  begar  indefinitely  to  see  that 
they  were  not  the  only  facto"3  in  the  equa- 
tion. He  was  probably  a  little  vexed  that 
he  had  not  seen  it  before ;  for  he  wished 
to  be  a  just  man.  He  was  wont  to  quote 
with  more  or  less  austerity — chiefly  the  re- 
sult of  his  professional  life — this: 

For  justice,  all  place  a  temple,  and  all  season  sum- 
mer. 

And,  man  of  war  as  he  was,  he  had  another 
saying  which  was  much  in  his  mouth ;  and 
he  lived  up  to  it  with  considerable  sin- 
cerity : 

Still  in  thy  right  hand  carry  gentle  peace, 
To  silence  envious  tongues. 

He  whispered  to  his  wife.  It  would  have 
been  hard  to  tell  from  her  look  what 
she  thought  of  the  matter,  but  presently 
she  changed  seats  with  her  husband,  that 
he  might,  by  holding  his  newspaper  at  a 
certain  angle,  shield  the  girl  from  intru- 
sive gazers. 

At  every  station  the  same  scene^was  en- 


If 

>  -I- 

II 


11 


nil 


i;] 


i\ 


U 


ill 


I '  j 
\ 


50 


Zbe  tTranelatton  of  a  Savage. 


1 


I; 

I'' 


acted.  And  inquisitive  people  must  have 
been  surprised  to  see  how  monotonously 
ordinary  was  the  manner  of  the  three 
white  people  in  the  compartment.  Sud- 
denly, at  a  station  near  London,  General 
Armour  gave  a  start,  and  used  a  strong 
expression  imder  his  breath.  Glancing 
at  the  "  Marriage  "  cohimn,  he  saw  a  no- 
tice to  the  effect  that  on  a  certain  day 
of  a  certain  month,  Francis  Gilbert,  the 
son  of  General  Joseph  Armour,  C.  B. ,  of 
Grcyhope,  Hertfordshire,  and  Cavendish 
Square,  was  married  to  Lali,  the  daughter 
of  Eye-of-the-Moon,  chief  of  the  Bloods, 
at  her  father's  lodge  in  the  Saskatchewan 
Valley.  This  had  been  inserted  by  Franli 
Armour's  solicitor,  according  to  his  in- 
structions, on  the  day  that  the  Aphrodite 
was  due  at  Liverpool.  General  Armour 
did  not  at  first  intend  to  show  this  to  his 
wife,  but  on  second  thought  he  did,  be- 
cause he  knew  she  would  eventually  come 
to  know  of  it,  and  also  because  she  saw 
that  something  had  moved  him.  She  si- 
lently reached  out  her  hand  for  the  paper. 
He  handed  it  to  her,  pointing  to  the  notice. 
Mrs.  Armour  was  unhappy,  but  her  self- 


4 


Hn  tbe  IRamc  of  tbc  afamils* 


51 


possession  was  admirable,  and  she  said 
nothing".  She  turned  her  face  to  the  win- 
dow, and  sat  for  a  long  time  looking  out. 
She  did  not  turn  to  the  others,  for  her  eyes 
were  full  of  tears,  and  she  did  not  dare  to 
V.  jpe  them  away,  nor  yet  to  let  them  be 
seen.  She  let  them  dry  there.  She  was 
thinking  of  her  son,  her  favourite  son,  for 
whom  she  had  been  so  ambitious,  and  for 
whom,  so  far  as  she  could,  and  retain  her 
self-respect,  she  had  delicately  intrigued, 
that  he  might  happily  and  befittingly 
marry.  She  knew  that  in  the  matter  of 
his  engagement  she  had  not  done  what 
was  best  for  him,  but  how  could  she  have 
guessed  that  this  would  be  the  result? 
She  also  was  sure  that  when  the  first  flush 
of  his  anger  and  disappointment  had 
passed,  and  he  came  to  view  this  thing 
with  cooler  mind,  he  would  repent  deeply 
— for  a  whole  lifetime.  She  was  convinced 
that  he  had  not  married  this  savage  for 
anything  which  could  make  marriage  en- 
durable. Under  the  weight  of  the  thought 
she  was  likely  to  forget  that  the  young 
alien  wife  might  have  lost  terribly  in  the 
event  also. 


!■ 


Ik! 


;  If 
■  1 


1  ■' 

!      1 


I. 

11 


\  m 


V'  ' 


H\ 


a 


\P 


1 


ff 


52 


♦■^^ 


Zbc  ^ranelatlon  of  a  Savage. 


The  arrival  at  Euston  and  the  departure 
from  St.  Pancras  were  rather  painful  all 
round,  for,  though  there  was  no  waiting 
at  either  place,  the  appearance  of  an  In- 
dian girl  in  native  costume  was  uncommon 
enough,  even  in  cosmopolitan  London,  to 
draw  much  attention.  Besides,  the  pla- 
cards of  the  evening  papers  were  blazoned 
with  such  announcements  as  this: 


f 


"A  Red  Indian  Girl 

Married  into 

An  English  County  Family." 

Someone  had  telegraphed  particulars 
— distorted  particulars — over  from  Liver- 
pool, and  all  the  evening  sheets  had  their 
portion  of  extravagance  and  sensation. 
General  Armour  became  a  little  more  erect 
and  austere  as  he  caught  sight  of  these 
placards,  and  Mrs.  Armour  groaned  in- 
wardly; but  their  faces  were  inscrutable, 
and  they  quietly  conducted  their  charge, 
;/////// jT  her  blanket,  to  the  train  which  was 
to  take  them  to  St.  Albans,  and  were  soon 
wheeling  homeward. 

At  Euston  they  parted  with  Lambert 
and  Mrs.  Townley,  who  quite  simply  and 


li     f 


I 


'1^ 


fin  tbe  IRame  of  tbe  ifamlli^. 


53 


conventionally  bade  good-bye  to  them  and 
their  Indian  daiighter-in-law.  Lali  had 
grown  to  like  Mrs.  Townley,  and  when 
they  parted  she  spoke  a  few  words  quickly 
in  her  own  tongue,  and  then  immediately 
was  confused,  because  she  remembered 
that  she  could  not  be  understood.  But 
presently  she  said  in  halting  English  that 
the  face  of  her  white  friend  was  good,  and 
she  hoped  that  she  would  come  one  time 
and  sit  beside  her  in  her  wigwam,  for  she 
would  be  sad  till  her  husband  travelled  to 
her. 

Mrs.  Townley  made  some  polite  reply 
in  simple  English,  pressed  the  girl's  hand 
sympathetically,  and  hurried  away.  Be- 
fore she  parted  from  Mr.  Lambert,  how- 
ever, she  said,  with  a  pretty  touch  of  cyn- 
icism, "  I  think  I  see  Marion  Armour 
listening  to  her  sister-in-law  issue  invita- 
tions to  her  wigwam,  I  am  afraid  I  should 
be  rather  depressed  myself  if  I  had  to  be 
sisterly  to  a  wigwam  lady." 

"But  I  say,  Mrs.  Townley,"  rejoined 
Lambert,  seriously,  as  he  loitered  at  the 
steps  of  her  carriage,  "  I  shouldn't  be  sur- 
prised if  my  lady  Wigwam — a  rather  apt 


fi  H 


t 

\ 


n 


i 

;!^ 

1 

I 

f 

i 

m 

ill 

1 

1 

1 

li 


54 


Zbc  ^translation  of  a  Savage. 


f 


and  striking-  title,  by  the  way — turned  out 
better  than  we  think.  She  carried  herself 
rippingly  without  the  blanket,  and  I  never 
saw  a  more  beautiful  hand  in  my  life — 
but  one,"  he  added,  as  his  fingers  at  that 
moment  closed  on  hers,  and  held  them 
tightly,  in  spite  of  the  indignant  little 
effort  at  withdrawal.  "  She  may  yet  be 
able  to  give  them  all  points  in  dignity  and 
that  kind  of  thing,  and  pay  Master  Frank 
back  in  his  own  coin.  I  do  not  see,  after 
all,  that  he  is  the  martyr." 

Lambert's  voice  got  softer,  for  he  still 
held  Mrs.  Townley's  fingers, — the  footman 
not  having  the  matter  in  his  eye, — and 
then  he  spoke  still  more  seriously  on  sen- 
timental affairs  of  his  own,  in  which  he 
evidently  hoped  she  would  take  some  inter- 
est. Indeed,  it  is  hard  to  tell  how  far  the 
case  might  have  been  pushed,  if  she  had 
not  suddenly  looked  a  little  forbidding  and 
imperious.  For  even  people  of  no  notable 
height,  with  soft  features,  dark-brown 
eyes,  and  a  delightful  little  laugh,  may 
appear  rather  regal  at  times.  Lambert 
did  not  quite  understand  why  she  should 
take  this  attitude.     If  he  had  been  as  keen 


fn  tbe  flame  of  tbc  family. 


55 


regarding  his  own  affairs  of  the  affections 
as  in  the  case  of  Frank  Armour  and  his 
Indian  bride,  he  had  known  that  every 
woman  has  in  her  mind  the  occasion  when 
she  should  and  when  she  should  not  be 
wooed;  and  nothing  disappoints  her  more 
than  a  declaration  at  a  time  which  is  not 
her  time.  If  it  does  not  fall  out  as  she 
wishes  it,  retrospect,  a  dear  thing  to  a 
woman,  is  spoiled.  Many  a  man  ha^  been 
sent  to  the  right-about  because  he  has  ven- 
tured his  proposal  at  the  wrong  time. 
What  would  have  occurred  to  Lambert  it 
is  hard  to  tell ;  but  he  saw  that  something 
was  wrong,  and  stopped  in  time. 

When  General  Armour  and  his  party 
reached  Greyhope  it  was  late  in  the  even- 
ing. The  girl  seemed  tired  and  confused 
by  the  events  of  the  day,  and  did  as  she 
was  directed  indifferently,  limply.  But 
when  they  entered  the  gates  of  Gre)'hope 
and  travelled  up  the  long  avenue  of  limes, 
she  looked  round  her  somewhat  eagerly, 
and  drew  a  long  sigh,  maybe  of  relief  or 
pleasure.  She  presently  stretched  out  a 
hand  almost  caressingly  to  the  thick  trees 
and  the  grass,  and  said  aloud,  "Oh,  the 


(    Iv 


iM 


llff 


, 


■ 


! 


r   i^ 


ti 


I  ; 


'   ll 


\\ 


m 
if 

i-ff 


iiiii 


56 


^be  {Tranelattoii  of  a  Savage. 


1^ 


I 


beautiful  trees  and  the  lonp:  gfrass !"  There 
was  a  whirr  of  birds'  wings  among  the 
branches,  and  then,  presently,  there  rose 
from  a  distance  the  sweet  gurgling  whistle 
of  the  nightingale.  A  smile  as  of  reminis- 
cence crossed  her  face.  Then  she  said  as 
if  to  herselt,  "  It  is  the  same.  I  shall  not 
die.  I  hear  the  birds'  winj^s,  and  one  is 
singing.  It  is  pleasant  to  sleep  in  the 
long  grass  when  the  nights  are  summer, 
and  to  hang  your  cradle  in  the  trees." 

She  had  asked  for  her  own  blanket,  re- 
fusing a  rug,  when  they  left  St.  Aloans, 
and  it  had  been  given  co  her.  She  drew 
it  abo':t  hernow  with  a  feeling  of  comfort, 
and  seemed  to  lose  the  horrible  sense  of 
strangeness  which  had  almost  convulsed 
her  when  she  was  put  into  the  carriage  at 
the  railway-station.  Her  reserve  had  hid- 
den much  of  what  she  really  felt ;  but  the 
drive  through  the  limes  had  shown  Gen- 
eral Armour  and  his  wife  that  ^hey  had 
to  do  with  a  nature  having  capacities  for 
sensitive  feeling;  which,  it  is  sometimes 
thought,  is  only  the  prerogative  of  certain 
well-bred  civilisations. 

But  it  was  impossible  that  they  should 


In  tbc  Iftame  of  tbc  jfamilg. 


57 


yet,  or  for  many  a  day,  feel  any  sense  of 
kinship  with  this  aboriginal  girl.  Pres- 
ently the  carriage  drew  up  to  the  doorway, 
which  was  instantly  open  to  them.  A 
broad  belt  of  light  streamed  out  upon  the 
stone  steps.  Far  back  in  the  hall  stood 
Maiion,  one  hand  upon  the  balustrade  of 
the  staircase,  the  other  tightly  held  at  her 
side,  as  if  to  nerve  herself  for  the  meet- 
ing. The  eyes  of  the  Indian  girl  pierced 
tlie  light,  and,  as  if  by  a  strange  instinct, 
found  those  of  Marion,  even  before  she 
left  the  carriage.  Lali  felt  vaguely  that 
here  was  her  possible  enemy.  As  she 
stepped  out  of  the  carriage.  General  Ar- 
mour's hand  under  her  elbow  to  assist  her, 
-he  drew  her  blanket  something  more 
closely  about  her,  and  so  proceeded  up  the 
steps.  The  composure  of  the  servants 
was,  in  the  circumstances,  remarkable. 
It  needed  to  have  been,  for  the  courage 
displayed  by  Lali's  two  new  guardians  dur- 
ing the  day  almost  faltered  at  the  thresh- 
old of  their  own  home.  Any  sign  of  sur- 
prise or  amusement  on  the  part  of  the 
domestics  would  have  given  them  some 
painful   moments  subsequently.     But  all 


i^    !^ 


t 


m^ 


(! 


1 

i 


i :  1. 


1:1 


V: 


58 


XLbc  Zxmelalion  ot  a  Savage. 


V 


n 
I 


I  I 


\  I 


was  perfectly  decorous.  Marion  still  stood 
motionless,  almost  dazed.  The  sronp  ad- 
vanced into  the  hall,  and  there  paused,  as 
if  waitinf^  for  her. 

At  that  moment  Richard  came  out  of 
the  study  at  her  right  hand,  took  her  arm, 
and  said,  quietly,  "Come  along,  Marion; 
let  us  be  as  brave  as  oiir  fathc  ■  and  mother. " 

She  gave  a  hard  little  gasp  and  seemed 
to  awake  as  from  a  dream.  She  quickly 
glided  forward  ahead  of  him,  kissed  her 
mother  and  father  almost  abruptly,  then 
turned  to  the  young  wife  with  a  scrutinis- 
ing eye.  *'  Marion,"  said  her  father,  "  this 
is  your  sister."  Marion  stood  hesitating, 
confused. 

**  Marion,  dear,"  repeated  her  mother, 
ceremoniously,  "this  is  your  brother's 
wife. — Lali,  this  is  your  husband's  sister, 
Marion." 

Mackenzie  translated  the  words  swiftly 
to  the   girl,   and   her   eyes   flashed  wide. 
Then  in  a  low  voice  she  said  in  English, 
"Yes,  Marion,  Hoiv!'' 

It  is  probable  that  neither  Marion  nor 
anyone  present  knew  quite  the  meaning 
of  Hoiv^  save  Richard,  and  he  could  not 


V 


Hn  tbe  flame  of  tbc  jfamilg. 


59 


suppress  a  smile,  it  sounded  so  absurd  and 
aboriginal.  But  at  this  exclamation  Ma- 
rion once  more  came  to  herself.  She  could 
not  possibly  go  so  far  as  her  mother  did  at 
the  dock,  and  kiss  this  savage,  but,  with 
a  rather  sudden  grasp  of  the  hand,  she 
said,  a  little  hysterically, — for  her  brain 
was  going  round  like  a  wheel, — "  Wo-won't 
you  let  me  take  your  blanket?"  and  forth- 
with laid  hold  of  it  with  tremulous  polite- 
ness. 

The  question  sounded,  for  the  instant, 
so  ludicrous  to  Richard  that,  in  spite  of 
the  distressing  situation,  he  had  to  choke 
back  a  laugh.  Years  afterwards,  if  he 
wished  for  any  momentary  revenge  upon 
Marion  (and  he  had  a  keen  sense  of  wordy 
retaliation),  he  simply  said,  "Wo-won't 
you  let  me  take  your  blanket?" 

Of  course  the  Indian  girl  did  not  under- 
stand, but  she  submitted  to  the  removal  of 
this  uncommon  mantle,  and  stood  forth  a 
less  trying  sight  to  Marion's  eyes;  for,  as 
we  said  before,  her  buckskin  costume  set 
off  softly  the  good  outlines  of  her  form. 

The  Indian  girl's  eyes  wandered  from 
Marion  to  Richard.     They  wandered  from 


^ 


I    18 


ii 


.! 


:  <j 


u  m 


!! 


m 

Ml 


Mr 


(lO 


^bc  (Translation  ot  a  Savage. 


I 


anxiety,  doubt,  and  a  bitter  kind  of  re- 
serve, to  cordiality,  sympathy,  and  a  grave 
kind  of  humour.  Instantly  the  girl  knew 
that  she  had  in  eccentric  Richard  Armour 
a  frank  friend.  Unlike  as  he  was  to  his 
brother,  there  was  still  in  their  eyes  the 
same  friendliness  and  humanity.  That  is, 
it  was  the  same  look  that  Frank  carried 
when  he  first  came  to  her  father's  lodge. 

Richard  held  out  his  hand  with  a  cor- 
dial little  laugh,  and  said,  "Ah,  ah,  very 
glad,  very  glad!  Just  in  time  for  supper. 
Come  along.  How  is  Frank,  eh?  how  is 
Frank?  Just  so;  just  so;  pleasant  jour- 
ney, I  suppose!"  He  vshook  her  hand 
warmly  three  or  four  times,  and,  as  he 
held  it,  placed  his  left  hand  over  it  and 
patted  it  patriarchal ly,  as  was  his  custom 
with  all  the  children  and  all  the  old  ladies 
that  he  knew. 

*'  Richard  "  said  his  mother,  in  a  studi- 
ously neutral  voice,  "you  might  see  about 
the  wine." 

Then  Richard  appeared  to  recover  him- 
self, and  did  as  he  was  requested,  but  not 
until  his  brother's  wife  had  vSaid  to  him  in 
English    as    they  courteously  drew    her 


^    / 


)  "! 


Ifn  tbe  "Wamc  ot  tbe  family 


01 


towards  the   staircase,  "Oh,   my  brother, 
Richard,  Ihno  !'' 

But  the  first  strain  and  suspense  were 
now  over  for  the  family,  and  it  is  probable 
that  never  had  they  felt  such  relief  as  when 
they  sat  down  behind  closed  doors  in  their 
own  rooms  for  a  short  respite,  while  the 
Indian  girl  was  closeted  alone  with  Mac- 
kenzie and  a  trusted  maid,  in  what  she 
called  her  wii>-wam. 


ii 


i! 


il 


I  J  !■: 

'•Mil 


i  \ 


i 


\ 

IL  , 


i  II"  I 


r 


CHAPTER  V. 


AN    AWKWARD    HALF-HOUR. 


)T  is  just  as  well,  perhaps,  that 
the  matter  had  become  notori- 
ous. Otherwise  the  Armours 
had  lived  in  that  unpleasant 
condition  of:  being  constantly  "discov- 
ered." It  was  simply  a  case  of  aiming  at 
absolute  secrecy,  which  had  been  frus- 
trated by  Frank  himself,  or  bold  and  un- 
embarrassed acknowledgment  and  an  at- 
tempt to  carry  things  off  with  a  high  hand. 
The  latter  course  was  the  only  one  possi- 
ble. It  had  originally  been  Richard's 
idea,  appropriated  by  General  Armour, 
and  accepted  by  Mrs.  Armour  and  Marion 
with  what  grace  was  possible.  The  pub- 
lication of  the  event  prepared  their  friends, 
and  precluded  the  necessity  for  reserve. 
What  the  friends  did  not  know  was  whether 
they  ought  or  ought  not  to  commiserate 
the  Armours.      It  was  a  difficult  position. 

62 


>  -  I', 


Bn  BwkwarD  1balt=1bour. 


63 


;• 


A  death,  an  accident,  a  lost  reputation, 
would  have  been  easy  to  them ;  concerning 
these  there  could  be  no  doubt.  But  an 
Indian  daughter-in-law,  a  person  in  moc- 
casins, was  scarcely  a  thing  to  be  congrat- 
ulated upon ;  and  yet  sympathy  and  con- 
solation might  be  much  misplaced:  no  one 
could  tell  how  the  Armours  would  take  it. 
For  even  their  closest  acquaintances  knew 
what  kind  of  delicate  hauteur  was  possible 
to  them.  Even  the  "  'centric  "  Richard, 
who  visited  the  cottages  of  the  poor,  car- 
rying soup  and  luxuries  of  many  kinds, 
accompan3ang  them  with  the  most  whole- 
some advice  a  single  man  ever  gave  to 
families  and  the  heads  of  families,  whose 
laugh  was  so  cheery  and  spontaneous, — and 
face  so  uncommonly  grave  and  sad  at  times, 
— had  a  faculty  for  manner.  With  aston- 
ishing suddenness  he  could  raise  insur- 
mountable barriers ;  and  people,  not  of  his 
order,  who  occasionall}^  presumed  on  his 
simplicity  of  life  and  habits,  found  them- 
selves put  distinctly  ill  at  ease  by  a  quiet 
curious  look  in  his  eye.  No  man  was  ever 
more  the  recluse  and  at  the  same  time  the 
man  of  the  world.     He  had  had  his  bitter 


I 


1  ■! 
'    i 

If 


Ktl 


i 


I' 


1  i\ 


'1 


HI 


1 1 


m 


II 


64 


Zbc  translation  of  a  Savage. 


i 


^    I 


'     9 


little  comedy  of  life,  but  it  was  different 
from  that  of  his  brother  Frank.  It  was 
buried  very  deep;  not  one  of  his  family 
knew  of  it:  Edward  Lambert,  and  one  or 
two  others  who  had  good  reason  never  to 
speak  of  it,  were  the  only  persons  possess- 
ing his  secret. 

But  all  England  knew  of  Frank's  mifsal- 
Uance.  And  the  question  was,  what  would 
people  do?  They  very  properly  did  noth- 
ing at  first.  They  waited  to  see  how  the 
Armours  would  act;  they  did  not  congrat- 
ulate ;  they  did  not  console ;  that  was  left 
to  those  papers  which  chanced  to  resent 
General  Armour's  politics,  and  those  oth- 
ers which  were  emotional  and  sensational 
on  every  subject — particularly  so  where 
women  were  concerned. 

It  was  the  beginning  of  the  season,  but 
the  Armours  had  decided  that  they  would 
not  go  to  town.  That  is,  the  general 
and  his  wife  were  not  going.  They  felt 
that  they  ought  to  be  at  Greyhope  with 
their  daughter-in-law, — which  was  to  their 
credit.  Regarding  Marion  they  had  noth- 
ing to  say.  Mrs.  Armour  inclined  to  her 
going  to  town  for  the  season,  to  visit  Mrs. 


{ 


I; 


r 


I 

ii 


I 


'li 


Bn  BwftwarD  1ba»f*l)our. 


65 


Townley,  who  had  thoughtfully  written  to 
her,  saying  that  she  was  very  lonely,  and 
begging  Mrs.  Armour  to  let  her  come,  if 
she  would.  She  said  that  of  course  Marion 
would  see  much  of  her  people  in  town  just 
the  same.  Mrs.  Townley  was  a  very  clever 
and  tactful  woman.  She  guessed  that 
General  Armour  and  his  wife  were  not 
likely  to  come  to  town,  but  that  must  not 
appear,  and  the  invitation  should  be  on  a 
different  basis — as  it  was. 

It  is  probable  that  Marion  saw  through 
the  delicate  plot,  but  that  did  not  make 
her  like  Mrs.  Townley  less.  These  little 
pieces  of  art  make  life  possible ;  these  ten- 
der fictions! 

Marion  was,  how^ever,  not  in  good  hu- 
mour ;  she  was  nervous  and  a  little  petulant. 
She  had  a  high-strung  temperament,  a 
sensitive  perception  of  the  fitness  of  things, 
and  a  horror  of  what  was  gauche;  and  she 
would,  in  brief,  make  a  rather  austere 
person,  if  the  lines  of  life  did  not  run  in 
her  favour.  She  had  something  of  Frank's 
impulsiveness  and  temper;  it  would  have 
been  a  great  blessing  to  her  if  she  had  had 
a  portion  of  Richard's  philosophical  hu- 


M 


<l" 


\\i^^ 


l;i 


I  . 

t 

''  >  3  - 
f  '  if' 


Ifl 


f 


i 


60 


tTbe  translation  ot  a  Sara^e. 


moiir  also.  She  was  at  a  point  of  tension — 
her  mother  and  Richard  could  see  that. 
She  was  anxious — though,  for  the  world, 
she  would  not  have  had  it  thought  so — re- 
garding Captain  Vidall.  vShe  had  never 
cared  for  anybody  but  him ;  it  was  possible 
she  never  would.  But  he  did  not  know 
this,  and  she  was  not  absolutely  sure  that 
his  evident  but  as  yet  informal  love  would 
stand  this  strain — which  shows  how  people 
very  honourable  and  perfect-minded  in 
themselves  may  allow  a  large  margin  to 
other  people  who  are  presumably  honour- 
able and  perfect-minded  also.  There  was 
no  engagement  between  them,  and  he  was 
not  boimd  in  any  way,  and  could,  there- 
fore, without  slashing  the  hem  of  the 
code,  retire  without  any  apology;  but 
they  had  had  that  unspoken  under- 
standing which  most  people  who  love 
each  other  show  even  before  a  word  of 
declaration  has  passed  their  lips.  If  he 
withdrew  because  of  this  scandal  there 
might  be  some  awkward  hours  for  Frank 
Armour's  wife  at  Greyhope;  but,  more 
than  that,  there  would  be  a  very  hard- 
hearted young  lady  to  play  her  part  in  the 


I 


I 


i 


Bn  BwhwarO  fbalfsfjour. 


67 


deceitful  world;  she  would  be  as  merciless 
as  she  could  be.  Naturally,  being  young, 
she  exaggerated  the  importance  of  the 
event,  and  brooded  on  it.  It  was  different 
with  her  father  and  mother.  They  were 
shocked  and  indignant  at  first,  but  when 
the  first  scene  had  been  faced  they  began 
to  make  the  best  of  things  all  round. 
That  is,  they  proceeded  at  once  to  turn  the 
North  American  Indian  into  a  European ; 
a  matter  of  no  littk-^  difficulty.  A  gover- 
ness was  discussed ;  but  General  Armour 
did  not  like  the  idea,  and  Richard  opposed 
it  heartily.  She  must  be  taught  English 
and  educated,  and  made  possible  *'  in  Chris- 
tian clothing,"  as  Mrs.  Armour  put  it.  Of 
the  education  they  almost  despaired, — all 
save  Richard;  time,  instruction,  vanity, 
and  a  dress-maker  might  do  much  as  to 
the  other. 

The  evening  of  her  arrival,  Lali  would 
not,  with  any  urging,  put  on  clothes  of 
Marion's  which  had  been  sent  in  to  her. 
And  the  next  morning  it  was  still  the  same. 
She  came  into  the  breakfast-room  dressed 
still  in  buckskin  and  moccasins,  and  though 
the  grease  had  been  taken  out  of  her  hair 


■iw 


^1 


li't 
I 
I 


\i 


IE 


I 


li 


!|.l'' 


\        '■:  ( 


(  ! 


'J 


].   \i 


:  i  v.] 


Hfi 


il^ 


■r 


68 


ZTbc  translation  of  a  Savaae. 


n 


it  was  still  combed  flat.  Mrs.  Armour  had 
tried  to  influence  her  through  Mackenzie, 
but  to  no  purpose.  She  was  placidly  stub- 
born. 

It  had  been  unvvisely  told  her  by  Mac- 
kenzie that  they  were  Marion's  clothes. 
They  scarcely  took  in  the  fact  that  the 
g-irl  had  pride,  that  she  was  the  daughter 
of  a  chief,  and  a  chieftainess  herself,  and 
that  it  was  far  from  happy  to  qf¥er  her 
Marion's  clothes  to  wear. 

Now,  Richard,  when  he  was  a  lad,  had 
been  on  a  journey  to  the  South  Seas,  and 
had  learned  some  of  the  peculiarities  of 
the  native  mind,  and  he  did  not  suppose 
that  American  Indians  differed  very  much 
from  certain  well-bred  Polynesians  in  lit- 
tle matters  of  form  and  good  taste.  When 
his  mother  told  him  what  had  occurred  be- 
fore Lali  entered  the  breakfast-room,  he 
went  directly  to  what  he  believed  was  the 
cause,  and  advised  tact  with  conciliation. 
He  also  pointed  out  that  Lali  was  some- 
thing taller  than  Marion,  and  that  she 
might  be  possessed  of  that  general  trait  of 
humanity, — vanity.  Mrs.  Armour  had  not 
yet  got   used  to   thinking  of  the  girl  in 


I 


Bn  BwftvvarO  1balt*1bour. 


69 


another  manner  than  an  intrusive  being  of 
a  lower  order,  who  was  there  to  try  their 
patience,  but  also  to  do  their  bidding.  She 
had  yet  to  grasp  the  fact  that,  being  her 
son's  wife,'  she  must  have,  therefore,  a  po- 
sition in  the  house,  exercising  a  certain 
authority  over  the  servants,  who,  to  Mrs. 
Armour,  at  first  seemed  of  superior  stuff. 
But  Richard  said  to  her,  ''  Mother,  I  fancy 
you  don't  quite  grasp  the  position.  The 
girl  is  the  daughter  of  a  chief,  and  the  de- 
scendant of  a  ^amily  of  chiefs,  perhaps, 
through  many  generations.  In  her  own 
land  she  has  been  used  to  respect,  and  has 
been  looked  up  to  pretty  generally.  Her 
garments  are,  I  fancy,  considered  very 
smart  in  the  Hudson's  Bay  Country;  and 
a  finely  decorated  blanket  like  hers  is  ex- 
pensive up  there.  You  see,  we  have  to 
take  the  thing  by  comparison:  so  please 
give  the  girl  a  chance." 

And  Mrs.  Armour  answered  wearily, 
"  I  suppose  you  are  right,  Richard ;  you 
generally  are  in  the  end,  though  why  you 
should  be  I  do  not  know,  for  you  never 
see  anything  of  the  world  any  more,  and 
you  moon  about  among  the  cottagers.     I 


I 


ilJ: 


(I 

II 


fil 


!    r 


i:      ' 


70 


Ubc  translation  of  a  Savage. 


-   r 


I  » 


li 


I 


suppose  it's  your  native  sense  and  the 
books  you  read. " 

Richard  laughed  softly^  but  there  was  a 
queer  ring  in  the  laugh,  and  he  came  over 
stumblingly  and  tnit  hi'>  .^rm  round  his 
■u. other's  sh<  aide-  *'  lvi  '  mind  hov;  I 
get  such  sense  as  I  Imv  mother;  I  have 
so  much  time  to  think,  it  v, '  dd  be  a  v^ron- 
der  if  I  hadn't  some.  But  I  think  v^^e  had 
better  try  to  study  her,  and  coax  her  along, 
and  not  fob  her  off  as  a  very  inferior  per- 
son, or  we  shall  have  our  hands  full  in 
earnest.  My  opinion  is,  she  has  got  that 
which  will  save  her  and  us  too, — a  very 
high  spirit,  which  only  needs  opportunity 
to  develop  into  a  remarkable  iiing ;  and, 
take  my  word  for  it,  mother,  if  we  treat 
her  as  a  chief tainess,  or  princess,  or  what- 
ever she  is,  and  not  simply  as  a  dusky 
person,  we  shall  come  off  better  and  she 
will  come  off  better  in  the  long  run. — She 
is  not  darker  than  a  Spaniard,  anyhow." 

At  this  point  Marion  entered  the  room, 
and  her  mother  rehearsed  briefly  to  her 
what  their  talk  had  been.  Marion  had  had 
little  sleep,  and  she  only  lifted  her  eye- 
brows at  them  at  first.     She  was  in  little 


u 


Bn  BwhwruO  Ibalfstbour. 


71 


nood  for  concilicilion.  She  remembered 
all  at  once  ihat  at  siippe^  the  evening  be- 
fore he^sister-in-law  had  said  How  !  to  the 
butler,  and  had  eaten  the  mayonnaise  with 
a  djssci  L-spoon.  But  presently,  because 
she  savv  they  waited  for  her  to  speak,  she 
said,  with  a  little  flutter  of  maliciousness, 
"Wouldn't  it  be  well  for  Richard — he  has 
plenty  of  time,  and  we  are  also  likely  to 
have  it  now — to  put  us  all  through  a  course 
of  instruction  for  the  training  of  chieftair 
esses?  And  when  do  you  think  she  will 
be  ready  for  a  drawing-room — Her  Majesc^' 
Queen  Victoria's,  or  ours?" 

"Marion!"  said  Mrs.  Armour,  severely; 
but  Richard  came  round  to  her,  and  with 
his  fresh  child-like  humour  put  his  arm 
round  her  waist,  and  added,  "Marion,  I'd 
be  willing  to  bet  (if  I  were  in  the  habit  of 
betting)  my  shaky  old  pins  here  against  a 
lock  of  your  hair  that  you  may  present  her 
at  any  drawing-room — ours  or  Queen  Vic- 
toria's— in  two  years,  if  we  go  at  it  right; 
and  it  would  serve  Master  Frank  very  well 
if  we  turned  her  out  something  after  all !" 

Mrs.  Armour  said  almost  eagerly,  "  I 
wish  it  were  only  possible,  Richard.     And 


I- 

lilt 


:il 


■  ■  \ 
(  ■■- 


\^->.: 


i! 


72 


Zbc  dranslation  of  a  Savaoc. 


what  you  sa}''  is  true,  I  suppose,  that  she  is 
of  rank  in  her  own  country,  whatever  value 
that  may  have!" 

Richard  saw  his  advantaji^e.  **Well, 
mother,"  he  said,  ''  a  chieftainess  is  a  chief- 
tainess,  and  I  don't  know  but  to  announce 
her  as  such,  and " 

"And  be  proud  of  it,  as  it  were,"  put 
in  Marion,  "and  pose  her,  and  make  her  a 
prize, — a  Pocahontas,  wasn't  it? — and  go 
on  pretending  world  without  end !"  Mari- 
on's voice  was  still  slightly  grating,  but 
there  was  in  it  too  a  faint  sound  of  hope. 
"Perhaps,"  she  said  to  herself,  "Richard 
is  right." 

At  this  point  the  door  opened  and  Lali 
entered,  shown  in  by  Colvin,  her  newly 
appointed  maid,  and  followed  by  Macken- 
zie, and,  as  we  said,  dressed  still  in  her 
heathenish  garments.  She  had  a  strong 
sense  of  dignity,  for  she  stood  still  and 
waited.  Perhaps  nothing  could  have  im- 
pressed Marion  more.  Had  Lali  been  sub- 
servient simply,  an  entirely  passive  unin- 
telligent creature,  she  would  probably 
liave  tyrannised  over  her  in  a  soft  persist- 
ent fashion  and  despised  her  generally. 


an  Bvvhvvar&  fbaiUfboux. 


But  Mrs.  Armour  and  Marion  saw  that  this 
stran<i^cr  miii;-ht  become  very  troublesome 
indeed,  if  her  temper  were  to  have  play. 
They  were  aware  of  capacities  for  passion 
in  those  dark  eyes,  so  musing  yet  so  active 
in  expression,  which  moved  swiftly  from 
one  object  to  another  and  then  suddenly 
became  resolute. 

Both  mother  and  daughter  came  forward, 
and  held  out  their  hands,  wishing  he  a 
pleasant  good-morning,  and  were  followed 
by  Richard,  and  immediately  by  General 
Armour,  who  had  entered  soon  after  her. 
She  had  been  keen  enough  to  read  (if  a  lit- 
tle vaguely)  behind  the  scenes,  and  her 
mind  was  wakening  slowly  to  the  peculiar- 
ity of  the  position  she  occupied.  The  place 
awed  her,  and  had  broken  her  rest  by  per- 
plexing her  mind,  and  she  sat  down  to  the 
breakfast-table  with  a  strange  hunted  look 
in  her  face.  But  opposite  to  her  was  a 
window  opening  to  the  ground,  and  beyond 
it  were  the  limes  and  beeches  and  a  wide 
perfect  sward,  and  far  away  a  little  lake, 
on  which  swans  and  wild  fowl  fluttered. 
Presently,  as  she  sat  silent,  eating  little, 
her   eyes    lifted    to    the   window.     They 


'            '          I' 

m 


1 


i 


<  1 


I'll 

■in 

I    I" 

:  !■ 


m 


!! 


74 


Zbc  Cranslatton  ot  a  Savage. 


flashed  instantly,  her  face  H^^htcd  up  with 
a  weird  kind  of  cliarni,  and  suddenly  she 
^ot  to  her  feet  with  Indian  exclamalions 
on  her  lips,  and,  as  if  unconscious  of  them 
all,  went  swiftly  to  the  window  and  out  of 
it,  waving-  her  hands  up  and  down  once  or 
twice  to  the  trees  and  the  sunlin;-ht. 

"What  did  she  say?"  said  Mrs.  Armonr, 
rising-  with  the  others. 

"She  said,"  replied  jMackenzie,  as  she 
hurried  towards  the  window,  "that  they 
were  her  beautiful  woods,  and  there  were 
wild  birds  flying  and  swimming  in  the 
water,  as  in  her  own  country." 

By  this  time  all  were  at  the  window, 
Richard  arriving  last,  and  the  Indian  girl 
turned  on  them,  her  body  all  quivering 
with  excitement,  laughed  a  low  bird-like 
laugh,  and  then,  clapping  her  hands  above 
her  head,  she  swung  roimd  and  ran  like  a 
deer  towards  the  lake,  shaking  her  head 
back  as  an  animal  does  when  fleeing  from 
his  pursuers.  She  would  scarcely  have 
been  recognised  as  the  same  placid,  speech- 
less woman  in  a  blanket  who  sat  with 
folded  hands  day  after  day  on  the  ApJuodiii'. 

The  watchers  turned  and  looked  at  each 


n 


I 


Bn  B\vh\var&  taiUfbont, 


78 


other  in  wonder.  Truly,  their  task  of  civ- 
ilising a  savaj^e  would  not  lack  in  interest. 
The  old  general  was  better  pleased,  how- 
ever, at  this  display  of  activity  and  excite- 
ment than  at  yesterday's  taciturnity.  He 
loved  spirit,  even  if  it  had  to  be  subdued, 
and  he  thought  on  the  instant  that  he 
might  possibly  come  to  look  upon  the  fair 
savage  as  an  actual  and  not  a  nominal 
daughter-in-law.  He  had  a  keen  appreci- 
ation of  courage,  and  he  thought  he  saw 
in  her  face,  as  she  turned  upon  them,  a 
look  of  defiance  or  daring,  and  nothing 
could  have  got  at  his  nature  quicker.  If 
the  case  had  not  been  so  near  to  his  own 
hearth-stone  he  would  have  chuckled.  As 
it  was,  he  said  good-humouredly  that  Mac- 
kenzie and  Marion  should  go  and  bring 
her  back.  But  Mackenzie  was  already  at 
that  duty.  Mrs.  Armour  had  had  the  pres- 
ence of  mind  to  send  for  Colvin,  but  pres- 
ently, whe^  the  general  spoke,  she  thought 
it  better  tha^  Marion  should  go,  and  coun- 
selled return,  ig  to  breakfast  and  not  mak- 
ing the  matte^  of  too  much  importance. 
This  they  did,  Richard  very  reluctantly, 
while  Marion,  rather  pleased  than  not  at 


ii 


,  I 


i 


m 


I!         I 


! 


t 


f: 


k 


if 


76 


Zbc  C^ranelatton  of  a  Savage. 


the  spirit  shown  by  the  stran<^e  girl,  ran 
away  over  the  grass  towards  the  lake,  where 
Lali  had  now  stopped.  There  was  a  little 
bridge  at  one  point  where  the  lake  nar- 
rowed, and  Lali,  evidently  seeing  it  all  at 
once,  went  towards  it,  and  ran  up  on  it, 
standing  poised  above  the  water  about 
the  middle  of  it.  For  an  instant  an  un- 
pleasant possibility  came  into  Marion's 
mind:  suppose  the  excited  girl  intended 
suicide!  She  shivered  as  she  thought  of  it, 

and  yet !     She  put  //m^  horribly  cruel 

and  selfish  thought  away  from  her  with  an 
indignant  word  at  herself !  She  had  passed 
Mackenzie,  and  came  first  to  the  lake. 
Here  she  slackened,  and  waved  her  hand 
playfully  to  the  girl,  so  as  not  to  frighten 
her — and  then  with  a  forced  laugh  came 
up  panting  on  the  bridge,  and  was  pres- 
ently by  Lali's  side.  Lali  eyed  her  a  little 
furtively,  but,  seeing  that  Marion  w^as 
much  inclined  to  be  pleasant,  she  nodded 
to  her,  said  some  Indian  words  hastilv,  and 
spread  out  her  hands  towards  the  water. 
As  she  did  so,  Marion  noticed  again  the 
beauty  of  those  hands  and  the  graceful 
character  of  the  gesture,  so  much  so  that 


\i 


£ 


1 1 


> 


Bn  BwhvvarD  1balt*1bour. 


she  forgot  the  flat  hair  and  the  unstayed 
body,  and  the  rather  broad  feet,  and  the 
delicate  duskiness,  which  had  so  worked 
upon  her  in  imagination  and  in  fact  the 
evening  before.  vShe  put  her  hand  kindly 
on  that  long  slim  hand  stretched  out  be- 
side her,  and,  because  she  knew  not  what 
else  to  speak,  and  because  the  tongue  is 
very  perverse  at  times — saying  the  oppo- 
site of  what  is  expected — she  herself  blun- 
dered out  "  i/^2c' /  Bow!  Lali." 

Perhaps  Lali  was  as  much  surprised  at 
the  remark  as  Marion  herself,  and  cer- 
tainly very  much  more  delighted.  The 
sound  of  those  familiar  words,  spoken  by 
accident  as  they  were,  opened  the  way  to 
a  better  understanding,  as  nothing  else 
could  possibly  have  done.  Marion  was 
annoyed  with  herself,  and  yet  amused  too. 
If  her  mind  had  been  perfectly  assured  re- 
garding Captain  Vidall,  it  is  probable  that 
then  and  there  a  peculiar,  a  genial,  com- 
radeship would  have  been  formed.  As  it 
was,  Marion  found  this  little  event  more 
endurable  than  she  expected.  She  also 
found  that  Lali,  when  she  laughed  in  pleas- 
ant acknowledgment  of  that  How  !  had  re- 
6 


III 


^, 


m 


V 


0 


, 


ivl 


h '      1 


v'^. 


i' 


IS 


^bc  translation  of  a  Savage, 


marakbly  white  and  regular  teeth.  Indeed, 
Marion  Armour  beg'an  to  discover  some 
estimable  points  in  the  appearance  of  her 
savage  sister-in-law.  Marion  remarked  to 
herself  that  Lali  might  be  a  rather  striking 
person,  if  she  were  dressed,  as  her  mother 
said,  in  Christian  garments,  could  speak 
the  English  language  well — and  was  some- 
body else's  sister-in-law. 

At  this  point  Mackenzie  came  breath- 
lessly to  the  bridge,  and  called  out  a  little 
sharply  to  Lali,  rebuking  her.  In  this 
Mackenzie  made  a  mistake;  for  not  only 
did  Lali  draw^  herself  up  with  considerable 
dignity,  but  Marion,  noticing  the  masterful 
nature  of  the  tone,  instantly  said,  "  Mac- 
kenzie, you  must  remember  that  you  are 
speaking  to  Mrs.  Francis  Armour,  and  that 
her  position  in  General  Armour's  house  is 
the  same  as  mine.  I  hope  it  is  not  neces- 
sary to  say  anything  more,  Mackenzie." 

iVIackcnzie  flushed.  She  was  a  sensible 
woman,  she  knew  that  she  had  done  wrong, 
and  she  said  very  promptly,  *'  I  am  very 
sorry,  miss;  I  was  flustered,  and  I  expect 
I  haven't  got  used  to  speaking  to — to  Mrs. 
Armour  as  I'll  be  sure  to  do  in  the  future. " 


r 


I 


r 


Bn  BwkwarD  Ibalfslbour. 


79 


As  she  spoke,  two  or  three  deer  came 
trotting  out  of  the  beeches  down  to  the 
lakeside.  If  Lali  was  pleased  and  excited 
before,  she  was  overwhelmed  now.  Her 
breath  came  in  quick  little  gasps;  she 
laughed;  she  tossed  her  hands;  she  seemed 
to  become  dizzy  with  delight;  and  pres- 
ently, as  if  this  new  link  with,  and  re- 
minder of,  her  past,  had  moved  her  as  one 
little  expects  a  savage  heart  is  moved,  two 
tears  gathered  in  her  eyes,  then  slid  down 
her  cheek  tmheeded,  and  dried  there  in  the 
simlight,  as  she  still  gazed  at  the  deer. 
Marion,  at  first  surprised,  was  now  touched, 
as  she  could  not  have  thought  it  possible 
concerning  this  wild  creature,  and  her  hand 
went  out  and  caught  Lali's  gently.  At 
this  genuine  act  of  sympathy,  instinctively 
felt  by  Lali, — the  stranger  in  a  strange 
land,  husbanded  and  yet  a  widow, — there 
came  a  flood  of  tears,  and,  dropping  on  her 
knees,  she  leaned  against  the  low  railing 
of  the  bridge  and  wept  silently.  So  pas- 
sionless was  her  grief  it  seemed  the  more 
pathetic,  and  Marion  dropi^ed  on  her  knees 
beside  her,  put  her  arm  round  her  shoul- 
der, and  said,  "  Poor  girl !     Poor  girl !" 


« 


i 


'1 


f: 


I! 


r  . 


U  !| 


80 


Zhc  translation  of  a  Savage. 


At  that  Lali  caught  her  hand,  and  held 
it,  repeating  after  her  the  words,  "  Poor 
girl!     Poor  girl!" 

She  did  not  quite  understand  them,  but 
she  remembered  that  once  just  before  she 
parted  from  her  husband  at  the  Great 
Lakes  he  had  said  those  very  words.  If 
the  fates  had  apparently  given  things  into 
Frank  Armour's  hands  when  he  sacrificed 
this  girl  to  his  revenge,  they  were  evidently 
inclined  to  play  a  game  which  would 
eventually  defeat  his  purpose,  wicked  as  it 
had  been  in  effect  if  not  in  absolute  mo- 
tive. What  the  end  of  this  attempt  to  en- 
graft the  Indian  girl  upon  the  strictest 
convention  of  English  social  life  would 
have  been  had  her  introduction  not  been 
at  Greyhope,  where  faint  likenesses  to  her 
past  surrounded  her,  it  is  hard  to  conjec- 
ture. But,  from  present  appearances,  it 
would  seem  that  Richard  Armour  was  not 
wholly  a  false  prophet;  for  the  savage  had 
shown  herself  that  morning  to  possess,  in 
their  crudeness,  some  striking  qualities  of 
character.  Given  character,  many  things 
are  pc^,?i'jie  even  to  those  who  are  not  of 
the  elect. 


1 


r 


f 


Bn  BwftwarD  1balfs1bour. 


81 


L 


T 


f 


This  was  the  beginning  of  better  things. 
Lali  seemed  to  the  Armours  not  quite  so 
impossible  now.  Had  she  been  of  the  very 
common  order  of  Indian  "  pure  and  sim- 
XJle,"  the  task  had  resolved  itself  into  mak- 
ing a  common  savage  into  a  very  common 
European.  But,  whatever  Lali  was,  it 
was  abundantly  evident  that  she  must  be 
reckoned  with  at  all  points,  and  that  she 
was  more  likely  to  become  a  very  startling 
figure  in  the  Armour  household  than  a 
mere  encumbrance  to  be  blushed  for,  whose 
eternal  absence  were  preferable  to  her 
company. 

Years  after  that  first  morning  Marion 
caught  herself  shuddering  at  the  thought 
that  came  to  her  when  she  saw  Lali  hov- 
ering on  the  bridge.  Whatever  Marion's 
faults  were,  she  had  a  fine  dislike  of  any- 
thing that  seemed  unfair.  She  had  not 
ridden  to  hounds  for  nothing.  She  had  at 
heart  the  sportsman's  instinct.  It  was 
upon  this  basis,  indeed,  that  Richard  ap- 
pealed to  her  in  the  first  trying  days  of 
Lali's  life  among  them.  To  oppose  your 
will  to  Marion  on  the  basis  of  superior 
knowledge  was  only  to  turn  her  into  a 


'!'! 

(; 


l^i 


•i    i 


it  ! 


'.  i, 
h  t 


82 


tibc  translation  of  a  Sava^^e. 


rebel ;  and  a  very  effective  ^ebel  vshe  made ; 
for  she  had  a  pretty  gift  at  the  retort  cour- 
teous, and  she  could  take  as  much,  and  as 
well,  as  she  gave.  She  rebelled  at  first  at 
assisting  in  Lali's  education,  though  by 
fits  and  starts  she  would  reach  her  English 
words,  and  help  her  to  form  long  senten- 
ces, and  was,  on  the  whole,  quite  patient. 
But  Lali's  real  instructors  were  Mrs.  Ar- 
mour and  Richard;  her  best,  Richard. 

The  first  few  days  she  made  but  little 
progress,  for  everything  was  strange  to 
her,  and  things  made  her  giddy, — the  ser- 
vants, the  formal  roiitine,  the  handsome 
furnishings,  Ma. ion's  music,  the  great 
house,  the  many  precise  personal  duties 
set  for  her,  to  be  got  through  at  stated 
times,  and  Mrs.  Armour's  rather  grand 
manner.  But  there  was  the  relief  to  this, 
else  the  girl  had  pined  terribly  for  her  na- 
tive woods  and  prairies;  this  was  the  park, 
the  det^r,  the  lake,  the  hares  and  birds. 
While  she  sat  saying  over  after  Mrs.  Ar- 
mour words  and  phrases  in  English,  or 
was  being  shown  how  she  must  put  on  and 
wear  the  clothes  which  a  dress-maker  from 
Regent  Street  had  been  brought  to  make. 


I 


I 


Bn  Bvvftvvar&  1balfs1[3our. 


83 


L 


her  eyes  would  wander  dreamily  to  the 
trees  and  the  lake  and  the  grass.  They 
soon  discovered  that  she  would  pay  no  at- 
tention and  was  straightway  difficult  to 
teach  if  she  was  not  placed  where  she  could 
look  out  on  the  park.  They  had  no  choice, 
for  though  her  resistance  was  never  active 
it  was  nevertheless  effective. 

Presently  she  got  on  very  swiftly  with 
Richard.  For  he,  with  instinct  worthy  of 
a  woman,  turned  their  lessons  upon  her 
own  cotmtry  and  Frank.  This  cost  him 
something,  but  it  had  its  reward.  There 
was  no  more  listlessness.  Prevv;-'ic>ly 
Frank's  name  had  scarcely  been  spoken  to 
her.  Mrs.  Armour  would  have  hours  of 
hesitation  and  impotent  regret  before  she 
brought  herself  to  speak  of  her  son  to  his 
Indian  wife.  Marion  tried  to  do  it  a  few 
times  and  failed;  the  general  did  it  with 
rather  a  forced  voice  and  manner,  because 
he  saw  that  his  wife  was  very  tender  upon 
the  point.  But  Richard,  who  never  knew 
self-consciousness,  spoke  freely  of  Frank 
when  he  spoke  at  all ;  and  it  was  seeing 
Lali'seyes  brighten  and  her  look  earnestly 
fixed  on  him  when  he  chanced  to  mention 


I 


I II 


i   I 


f 


T 


II 


I' 


5, 
I        .5 


i  I 


84 


Zbc  (Translation  ot  a  Savage. 


Frank's  name,  that  determined  him  on  his 
new  method  of  instruction.  It  had  its 
dangers,  but  he  had  calculated  them  all. 
The  girl  must  be  educated  at  all  costs. 
The  sooner  that  occurred  the  sooner  would 
she  sc  her  own  position  and  try  to  adapt 
herself  to  her  responsibilities,  and  face  the 
real  state  of  her  husband's  attitude  towards 
her. 

He  succeeded  admirably.  Striving  to 
tell  him  about  her  past  life,  and  ready  to 
talk  endlessly  about  her  husband,  of  his 
prowess  in  the  hunt,  of  his  strength  and 
beauty,  she  also  strove  to  find  English 
words  for  the  purpose,  and  Richard  sup- 
plied them  with  imcommon  willingness. 
He  humourec  her  so  far  as  to  learn  many 
Indian  words  and  phrases,  but  he  was 
chary  of  his  use  of  them,  and  tried  hard 
to  make  her  appreciative  of  her  new  life 
and  surroundings.  He  watched  her  wak- 
ing slowly  to  an  understanding  of  the  life, 
and  of  all  that  it  involved.  It  gave  him  a 
kind  of  fear,  too,  because  she  was  sensitive, 
and  there  was  the  possible  danger  of  her 
growing  disheartened  or  desperate,  and 
doing  some   mad  thing  in  the  hour  that 


t 


Bn  B\v[?vvar&  Ibalt^lbour. 


85 


she   wakened   to   the    secret    behind  her 


marriage. 


His  apprehensions  were  not  without 
cause.  For  slowly  there  came  into  Lali's 
mind  the  element  of  comparison.  She  be- 
came conscious  of  it  one  day  when  some 
neighbouring  people  called  at  Greyhope. 
Mrs.  Armour,  in  her  sense  of  duty,  which 
she  had  rigidly  set  before  her,  introduced 
Lali  into  the  drawing-room.  The  visitors 
veiled  their  curiosity  and  said  some  pleas- 
ant casual  things  to  the  young  wife,  but 
she  saw  the  half-curious,  half-furtive 
glances,  she  caught  a  sidelong  glance  and 
smile,  and  when  they  were  gone  she  took 
to  looking  at  herself  in  a  mirror,  a  thing 
she  could  scarcely  be  persuaded  to  do  be- 
fore. She  saw  the  difference  between  her 
carriage  and  others',  her  manner  of  wear- 
ing her  clothes  and  others',  her  complex- 
ion and  theirs.  She  exaggerated  the 
difference.  vShe  brooded  on  it.  Now  she 
sat  downcast  and  timid,  and  hunted  in 
face,  as  the  first  evening  she  came ;  now 
she  appeared  restless  and  excited. 

If  Mrs.  Armdtir  was  not  exactly  sympa- 
thetic with  her,  she  was  quiet  and  forbear- 


»» 


f' 


Pi  i'.ii 


h  I 


I 


id 


ii. 


(' 


t 


r 


86 


Zhc  translation  of  a  Savaoc 


I  ^ 


ing*,  and  General  Armour,  like  Richard, 
tried  to  draw  her  out, — but  not  on  the  same 
subjects.  He  dwelt  upon  what  she  did; 
the  walks  she  took  in  the  park,  those  hours 
in  the  afternoon  when,  with  Mackenzie  or 
Colvin,  she  vanished  into  th*^-  beeches, 
makincf  friends  with  the  birds  and  deer 
and  swans.  liut  most  of  all  she  loved  to 
go  to  the  stables.  She  was,  however, 
asked  not  to  go  unless  Richard  or  General 
Armour  was  with  her.  vShe  loved  horses, 
and  these  were  a  wonder  to  her.  She  had 
never  known  any  but  the  wild  ungroomed 
Indian  pony,  on  which  she  had  ridden  in 
every  fashion  and  over  every  kind  of 
country.  Mrs.  Armour  sent  for  a  riding- 
master,  and  had  riding-costumes  made  for 
her.  It  was  intended  that  she  should  ride 
every  day  as  soon  as  she  seemed  sufficiently 
presentable.  This  did  not  appear  so  very 
far  off,  for  she  improved  daily  in  appear- 
ance. Iler  hair  v/as  growing  finer  and  was 
made  np  in  the  modest  prevailing  fashion; 
her  skin,  not  now  exposed  to  an  inclement 
climate,  and  subject  to  the  utmost  care, 
was  smoother  and  fairer;  her  feet  encased 
in    fine    well-made    boots    looked    much 


t 


Bn  BwhwarO  1balfsibour. 


I 


smaller,  her  waist  was  shaped  to  fashion, 
and  she  was  very  straight  and  lissome. 
So  many  things  she  did  jarred  on  her  rela- 
tives, that  they  were  not  fully  aware  of 
the  great  improvement  in  her  appearance. 
Even  Richard  admitted  her  trying  at  times. 

Marion  went  up  to  town  to  stay  with 
Mrs.  Townley,  and  there  had  to  face  a 
good  deal  of  curiosity.  People  looked  at 
her  sometimes  as  if  it  was  she  and  not 
Lali  that  was  an  Indian.  But  she  carried 
things  off  bravely  enough,  and  answered 
those  kind  inquiries,  which  one's  friends 
make  when  we  are  in  embarrassing  situa- 
tions, with  answers  so  calm  and  pleasant 
that  people  did  not  know  what  to  think. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  in  reply  to  Lady  Bal- 
wood,  "her  sister-in-law  might  be  in  town 
later  in  the  year,  perhaps  before  the  sea- 
son was  over:  she  could  not  tell.  Shew^as 
tired  after  her  long  voyage,  and  she  pre- 
ferred the  quiet  of  Greyhope ;  she  was  fond 
of  riding  and  country-life;  but  still  she 
would  come  to  town  for  a  time."  And  so 
on. 

"Ah,  dear  me,  how  charming!  And 
doesn't  she  resent  her  husband's  absence 


I    !     H  J 


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IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


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^ 


1.0    ^^^  II 


I.I 


11.25 


2,5 


-  lis  ill M 


14    IIIIII.6 


V 


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Photographic 

Sciences 
Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  NY.  14580 

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!ii 


88 


Zhc  ^translation  of  a  Savage. 


•  ii 


— during  the  honeymoon?  or  did  the 
honeymoon  occur  before  she  came  over  to 
England?"  And  Lady  Balwood  tried  to 
say  it  all  playfully,  and  certainly  said  it 
something  loudly.     She  had  daughters. 

But  Marion  was  perfectly  prepared.  Her 
face  did  not  change  exi>ression.  *'  Yes, 
they  had  had  their  honeymoon  on  the 
prairies,  Frank  was  so  fascinated  with  the 
life  and  the  people.  He  had  not  come 
home  at  once,  because  he  was  making  she 
did  not  know  how  great  a  fortune  over 
there  in  investments,  and  so  Mrs.  Armour 
came  on  before  him,  and,  of  course,  as 
soon  as  he  could  get  away  from  his  busi- 
ness he  would  follow  his  wife." 

And  though  Marion  smiled,  her  heart 
was  very  hot,  and  she  could  have  slain 
Lady  Balwood  in  her  tracks.  Lady  Bal- 
wood then  nodded  a  little  patronisingly, 
and  babbled  that  "  she  hoped  so  much  to 
see  Mrs.  Francis  Armour.  She  must  be 
so  very  interesting,  the  papers  said  so 
much  about  her. " 

Now,  while  this  conversation  was  going 
on,  someone  stood  not  far  behind  Marion, 
who  seemed  much  interested  in  her  and 


H 


4 


Bn  BwhwarD  "fcalfsljour. 


89 


11 


'what  she  said.  But  Marion  did  not  see 
this  person.  She  was  startled  presently, 
however,  to  hear  a  strong  voice  say  softly 
over  her  shoulder,  "  What  a  charming 
woman  Lady  Balwood  is!  And  so  in- 
genuous!" 

She  was  grateful,  tremulous,  proud. 
Why  had  he — Captain  Vidall — kept  out  of 
the  way  all  these  weeks,  just  when  she 
needed  him  most,  just  when  he  should 
have  played  the  part  of  a  man?  Then  she 
was  feeling  twinges  at  the  heart  too.  She 
had  seen  Lady  Agnes  Martling  that  after- 
noon, and  had  noticed  how  the  news  had 
worn  on  her.  She  felt  how  much  better 
it  had  been  had  Frank  come  quietly  home 
and  married  her,  instead  of  doing  the  wild 
scandalous  thing  that  was  making  so  many 
heart-burnincrs.  A  few  minutes  acfo  she 
had  longed  for  a  chance  to  say  something 
delicately  acid  to  Lady  Haldwell,  once 
Julia  Sherwood,  who  was  there.  Now 
there  was  a  chance  to  give  her  bitter  spirit 
tongue.  She  was  glad,  she  dared  not 
think  how  glad,  to  hear  that  voice  again ; 
but  she  was  angry  too,  and  he  should 
suffer  for  it, — the   more   so  because  she 


•1 


.i ,  ■ 


, . 


:t  < 


i 


ir 


90 


XTbe  translation  of  a  Savage. 


recongised  in  the  tone-,  and  afterwards  in 
his  face,  that  he  was  still  absorbingly  in- 
terested in  her.  There  was  a  little  burst 
of  thanksti^ivino^  in  her  heart,  and  then  she 
prepared  a  very  notable  commination  ser- 
vice in  her  mind. 

This  meeting  had  been  deftly  arranged 
by  Mrs.  Townley,  with  the  help  of  Edward 
Lambert,  who  now  held  her  fingers  with 
a  kind  of  vanity  of  possession  whenever 
he  bade  her  good-bye  or  met  her.  Captain 
Vidall  had,  in  fact,  been  out  of  the  coun- 
try, had  only  been  back  a  week,  and  had 
only  heard  of  Frank  Armour's  vihalliance 
from  Lambert  at  an  At  Home  forty-eight 
hours  before.  Mrs.  Townley  guessed 
what  was  really  at  the  bottom  of  Marion's 
occasional  bitterness,  and,  piecing  together 
many  little  things  dropped  casually  by 
her  friend,  had  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  the  happiness  of  two  people  was  at 
stake. 

When  Marion  shook  hands  with  Captain 
Vidall  she  had  herself  exceedingly  well 
imder  control.  She  looked  at  him  in 
slight  surprise,  and  casually  remarked 
that  they  had  not  chanced  to  meet  lately 


II 


I> 


Bn  BvvhwarO  1baU*1bour. 


91 


in  the  run  of  small-and-earlics.  She  ap- 
peared to  be  unconscious  that  he  had  been 
out  of  the  country,  and  also  that  she  had 
been  till  very  recently  indeed  at  Greyhope. 
He  hastened  to  assure  her  that  he  had 
been  away,  and  to  lay  siege  to  this  unex- 
pected barrier.  He  knew  all  about  Frank 's 
affair,  and,  though  it  troubled  him,  he  did 
not  see  why  it  should  make  any  difference 
in  his  regard  for  Frank's  sister.  Fastidi- 
ous as  he  was  in  all  things,  he  was  fastidi- 
ously deferential.  Not  an  exquisite,  he 
had  all  that  vanity  as  to  appearance,  so 
usual  with  the  military  man;  himself  of 
the  most  perfect  temper  and  sweetness  of 
manner  and  conduct,  the  unusual  disturbed 
him.  Not  posseSvSed  of  a  vivid  imagina- 
tion, he  could  scarcely  conjure  up  this 
Indian  bride  at  Greyhope. 

But  face  to  face  with  Marion  Armour 
he  saw  what  troubled  him,  and  he  deter- 
mined that  he  would  not  meet  her  irony 
with  irony,  her  assumed  indifference  with 
indifference.  He  had  learned  one  of  the 
most  important  lessons  of  life:  never  to 
quarrel  with  a  woman.  Whoever  has  so 
far  erred  has  been  foolish  indeed.     It  is 


(I- 

I 


111' 


n 


^ 


!■ 


|i!' 


:i 


■11 


\m 


^i\ 


02 


^be  c:ran8lation  ot  a  Savaae. 


' 


p 


*i 


the  worst  of  policy,  to  say  nothing  of  its 
being-  the  worst  of  art;  and  life  should 
never  be  without  art.  It  is  absurd  to  be 
perfectly  natural ;  anything,  anybody,  can 
be  that.  Well,  Captain  Hume  Vidall  was 
something  of  an  artist,  more,  however,  in 
principle  than  by  temperament.  He  re- 
fused to  recognise  the  rather  malicious 
adroitness  with  which  Marion  turned  his 
remarks  again  upon  himself,  twisted  out 
of  all  semblance.  He  was  very  patient. 
He  inquired  quietly,  and  as  if  honestly 
interested,  about  Frank,  and  said — because 
he  thought  it  safest  as  well  as  most  rea- 
sonable— that,  naturally,  they  must  have 
been  surprised  at  his  marrying  a  native; 
but  he  himself  had  seen  some  such  mar- 
riages turn  out  very  well, — in  Japan,  In- 
dia, the  South  Sea  Islands,  and  Canada. 
He  assumed  that  Marion's  sister-in-law 
was  beautiful,  and  then  disarmed  Marion 
by  saying  that  he  thought  of  going  down 
to  Greyhope  immediately,  to  call  on  Gen- 
eral 'Armour  and  Mrs.  Armour,  and  won- 
dered if  she  was  going  back  before  the 
end  of  the  season. 

Quick  as  Marion  was,  this  was  said  so 


i 


r 


■J* 


Bn  Bvvhvx^arD  1l3alt*1bour. 


m 


quietly  that  she  did  not  quite  see  the  drift 
of  it.  She  had  intended  staying  in  Lon- 
don to  the  end  of  the  season,  not  because 
she  enjoyed  it,  but  because  she  was  de- 
termined to  face  Frank's  marriage  at  every 
quarter,  and  have  it  over,  once  for  all, 
so  far  as  herself  was  concerned.  But  now, 
taken  slightly  aback,  she  said,  almost  with- 
out thinking,  that  she  would  probably  go 
back  soon, — she  was  not  quite  sure;  but 
certainly  her  father  and  mother  would  be 
glad  to  see  Captain  Yidall  at  any  time. 

Then,  without  any  apparent  relevancy, 
he  asked  her  if  Mrs.  Frank  Armour  still 
wore  her  Indian  costume.  In  anyone  else 
the  question  had  seemed  impertinent;  in 
him  it  had  a  touch  of  confidence,  of  the 
privilege  of  close  friendship.  Then  he 
said,  with  a  meditative  look  and  a  very 
calm  retrospective  voice,  that  he  was  once 
very  much  in  love  with  a  native  girl  in 
India,  and  might  have  become  perma- 
nently devoted  to  her,  were  it  not  for  the 
accident  of  his  being  ordered  back  to  Eng- 
land simimarily. 

This  was  a  piece  of  news  which  cut  two 
ways.  In  the  first  place  it  lessened  the 
7 


'   « 


'I 


I    ■ 


f 


94 


ZTbc  translation  o(  a  Saraac 


, } 


I 


'It 


I 


extraordinary  character  of  Frank's  mar- 
riaei^e,  and  it  roused  in  her  an  immediate 
curiosity, — which  a  woman  always  feels  in 
the  past  "  affairs  "  of  her  lover,  or  possible 
lover.  Vidall  did  not  take  pains  to  im- 
press her  with  the  fact  that  the  matter 
occurred  when  he  was  almost  a  bov:  and 
it  was  when  her  earnest  inquisition  had 
drawn  from  him,  bit  by  bit,  the  circum- 
stances of  the  case,  and  she  had  forgotten 
many  parts  of  her  commination  service 
and  to  preserve  an  effective  neutrality  in 
tone,  that  she  became  aware  he  was  speak- 
inir  ancient  historv.  Then  it  was  too  late 
to  draw  back. 

They  had  threaded  their  way  through 
the  crowd  into  the  conservatory,  where 
they  were  quite  alone,  and  there  with  only 
a  little  pyramid  of  hydrangeas  between 
them,  which  she  could  not  help  but  notice 
chimed  well  with  the  color  of  her  dress, 
he  dropped  his  voice  a  little  lower,  and 
then  suddenly  said,  his  eyes  hard  on  her, 
"  I  want  your  permission  to  go  to  Grey- 
hope." 

The  tone  drew  her  e3^es  hastily  to  his, 
and,    seeing,    she    dropped    them    again. 


M 


;.» 


Bn  B\vk\varJ>  Ibalt'tJour. 


06 


Vidall  had  a  stron^^  will,  and,  what  is  of 
more  consequence,  a  peculiarly  attractive 
voice.  It  had  a  vibration  which  made 
some  of  his  words  organ-like  in  sound. 
vShe  felt  the  influence  of  it.  vShe  said  a 
little  faintly,  her  fingers  toying  with  a 
hydrangea,  "  I  am  afraid  I  do  not  under- 
stand. There  is  no  reas(^n  why  you  should 
not  go  to  Greyhopc  without  my  permis- 
sion." 

*' I  cannot  go  w^ithout  it,"  he  persisted. 
"  I  am  w'aiting  for  my  commission  from 
you.  •' 

She  dropped  her  hand  from  the  flower 
with  a  little  impatient  motion.  She  was 
tired,  her  head  ached,  she  wanted  to  be 
alone.  "Why  are  you  enigmatical?"  she 
said.  Then  quickly,  "  I  wish  I  knew 
what  is  in  your  mind.  You  play  with 
words  so." 

She  scarcely  knew  what  she  said.  A 
woman  who  loves  a  man  very  much  is  not 
quick  to  take  in  the  absolute  declaration 
of  that  man's  love  on  the  instant;  it  is  too 
wonderful  for  her.  He  felt  his  cheek  flush 
with  hers,  he  drew  her  look  again  to  his. 
*'  Marion !  Marion !"  he  said.    That  was  all. 


1^: 


ir. 

•iil 


<i 


96 


Xlbc  translation  of  a  Savage. 


ii- 1,1 


'■    5 


"Oh,  hush!  someone  is  comin^i^,"  was 
her  quick,  throbbin^i,^  reply.  When  they 
parted  a  half -hour  later,  he  said  to  her, 
"  Will  you  ^ive  me  my  commission  to  go 
to  Greyhope?" 

"Oh,  no,  I  cannot,"  she  said,  very 
gravely;  "but  come  to  Oreyhope — when 
I  go  back." 

"And  when  will  that  be?"  he  said,  smil- 
ing, yet  a  little  ruefully  too. 

"Oh,  ask  Mrs.  Townley,"  she  replied: 
"she  is  coming  also." 

Marion  knew  what  that  commission  to 
go  to  Greyhope  meant.  But  she  deter- 
mined that  he  should  see  Lali  first,  before 
anything  irrevocable  was  done.  She  still 
looked  upon  Frank's  marriage  as  a  scandal. 
Well,  Captain  Vidall  should  face  it  in  all 
its  crudeness.  So,  in  a  week  or  less  Marion 
and  Mrs.  Townley  were  in  Greyhope. 

Two  months  had  gone  since  Lali  arrived 
in  England,  and  yet  no  letter  had  come  to 
her,  or  to  any  of  them,  from  Frank. 
Frank's  solicitor  in  London  had  written 
him  fully  of  her  arrival,  and  he  had  had 
a  reply,  with  further  instructions  regard- 
ing money  to  be   placed  to  General  Ar- 


' 


I 

I  i 


Bn  BwhwarD  l5aU*l30ur. 


07 


moiir's  credit  for  the  bcnctit  of  his  wife. 
Lali,  as  she  i)ecamc  Europeanised,  also 
awoke  to  the  forms  and  ccrcniouics  of  her 
new  life.  She  had  overheard  Frank's 
father  and  mother  wonderinj:]^,  and  frettin;^ 
as  they  wondered,  why  thoy  had  not  re- 
ceived any  word  from  him.  General  Ar- 
mour had  even  called  him  a  scoundrel; 
which  sent  Frank's  mother  into  tears. 
Then  Lali  had  questioned  Mackenzie  and 
Cowan,  for  she  had  increasin<j^  shrewdness, 
and  she  beg-an  to  feel  her  actual  position. 
She  resented  General  Armour's  imputa- 
tion, but  in  her  heart  she  began  to  pine 
and  wonder.  At  times,  too,  she  was  fitiul, 
and  was  not  to  be  drawn  out.  But  she 
went  on  improving-  in  personal  appearance 
and  manner  and  in  learning  the  English 
language.  Mrs.  Townley's  appearance 
marked  a  change  in  her,  When  they  met 
she  suddenly  stood  still  and  trembled. 
When  Mrs.  Townley  came  to  her  and  took 
her  hand  and  kissed  her,  she  shivered, 
and  then  caught  her  about  the  shoulders 
lightly,  but  was  silent.  After  a  little  she 
said,  "Come — come  t(»  my  wigwam,  and 
talk  with  me." 


11 


PI! 


i,; 


I 


i! 


98 


TTbc  translation  of  a  Savage. 


H 


She  said  it  with  a  stranj;e  litUc  smile, 
for  now  she  recognised  tliat  the  word  7i>i[i;' 
warn  was  not  to  be  used  in  her  new  life. 
But  Mrs.  Townlcy  whispered,  "Ask  Ma- 
rion to  come  too." 

Lali  hesitated,  and  then  said,  a  little 
maliciously,  "  Marion,  will  you  come  to 
my  wigwam?" 

Marion  ran  to  her,  caught  her  about  the 
•  waist,   and  replied,  gaily,   "Yes,  we  will 
have  ^ po7u-7vo7u — is  that  riglit?  \'^ pim*-UHnv 
right?" 

The  Indian  girl  shook  her  head  with  a 
pretty  vagueness,  and  vanished  with  them. 
General  Armour  walked  up  and  down  the 
room  briskly,  then  turned  on  his  wife  and 
said,  "Wife,  it  was  a  brutal  thing:  Frank 
doesn't  deserve  to  be — the  father  of  her 
child." 

But  Lali  had  moods — singular  moods. 
She  indulged  in  one  three  days  after  the 
arrival  of  Marion  and  Mrs.  Townley.  She 
had  learned  to  ride  with  the  side-saddle, 
and  wore  her  riding-dress  admirably.  No- 
where did  she  show  to  better  advantage. 
She  had  taken  to  riding  now  with  General 
Armour  on  the  country  roads.     On  this 


r 


r 


r 


Bn  BwhwarD  1bal(^1bour. 


99 


1 


(lay  Captain  Viclall  was  expected,  he  hav- 
ing written  to  ask  that  he  nii^dit  eonie. 
Wluit  tr<)ui)le  Lali  had  with  one  of  the  ser- 
vants that  niorninj^  was  never  tlioroii^hly 
expkiincd,  but  certain  it  is,  she  came  to 
have  a  crude  notion  of  why  Frank  Armour 
married  her.  The  servant  was  dismissed 
duly,  but  tliat  was  after  the  coiitrc-tcinps. 

It  was  late  afternoon.  Everybody  had 
been  l)usy,  because  one  or  two  other  j^uests 
were  expected  besides  Captain  Vidall. 
Lali  had  kept  to  herself,  sendin^^  word 
throuj^h  Richard  that  vShe  would  not  "  be 
En^lisli,"  as  she  vaguely  put  it,  that  day. 
She  had  sent  Mackenzie  on  some  mission. 
She  sat  on  the  floor  of  her  room,  as  she 
used  to  sit  on  the  ground  in  her  father's 
lodge.  Her  head  was  bowed  in  her  hands, 
and  her  arms  rested  on  her  knees.  Her 
body  swayed  to  and  fro.  Presently  all 
motion  ceased.  She  became  perfectly 
still.  Slie  looked  before  her,  as  if  study- 
ing something. 

Her  eyes  immediately  flashed.  vShe  rose 
quickly  to  her  feet,  went  to  her  w^ardrobe, 
and  took  out  her  Indian  costume  and 
blanket,   with  which  she  could  never  be 


i! 


« 


i;ii 


pjl 


I 


f;  ^ 


n,. 


In . 
! 


i    I 


I  , 


!  r 


'mi 


^' 


lit  I J 


"  h 


100 


XLbc  tTranslatlon  of  a  Savage. 


y6 


induced  to  part.  Almo.st  feveri-shly  she 
took  off  the  clothes  she  wore,  and  hastily 
threw  them  from  her.  Then  she  put  on 
the  buckskin  clothes  in  which  she  had 
journeyed  to  England,  drew  down  her  hair 
as  she  used  to  wear  it,  fastened  round  her 
waist  a  long  red  sash  which  had  been 
given  her  by  a  governor  of  the  Hudson's 
Bay  Company  when  he  had  visited  her 
father's  country,  threw  her  blanket  round 
her  shoulders,  and  then  eyed  herself  in 
the  great  mirror  in  the  room.  What  she 
saw  evidently  did  not  please  her  perfectl)', 
for  she  stretched  our  her  hands  and  looked 
at  them ;  she  shook  her  head  at  herself  and 
put  her  hand  to  her  cheeks  and  pinched 
them, — they  were  not  so  brown  as  they 
once  were, — then  she  thrust  out  her  foot. 
She  drew  it  back  quickly  in  disdain.  Im- 
mediately she  caught  the  fashionable  slip- 
pers from  her  feet  and  threw  them  among 
the  discarded  garments.  She  looked  at 
herself  again.  Still  vshe  was  not  satisfied, 
but  she  threw  up  her  arms,  as  with  a  sense 
of  pleasure  and  freedom,  and  laughed  at 
herself.  She  pushed  out  her  moccasin ed 
foot,    tapped    the    floor    with   it,    nodded 


T 


r>  *- 


^ 

i 


Bn  Bwft\var&  Ibalfslbour. 


101 


towards  it,  and  said  a  word  or  two  in  her 
own  lang-uage.  She  heard  someone  in 
the  next  room,  possibly  Mackenzie.  She 
stepped  to  the  door  leading-  into  the  hall, 
opened  it,  went  out,  travelled  its  length,' 
ran  down  a  back  hallway,  ont  into  the 
park  towards  the  stables,  her  blanket,  as 
her  hair,  flying  behind  her. 

She   entered   the   stables,    made    for   a 
horse   that   she  had   ridden  much,   put  a 
bridle  on  him,  led  him  out  before  anyone 
had  seen  her,   and,  catching  him  by  the 
mane,  suddenly  threw  herself  on  him  at  a 
bound,  and,  giving  him  a  tap  with  a  short 
whip  she   had   caught  up  in  the  stab!j, 
headed  him  for  the  main  avenue  and  the 
open  road.     Then   a  stableman  saw  her 
and  ran  after,  but  he  might  as  well  have 
tried  to  follow  the  wind.     He  forthwith 
proceeded  to  saddle  another  horse.     Boul- 
ter also  saw  her  as  she  passed  the  house, 
and,   running  in,  told    Mrs.    Armour  and 
the  general.     They  both  ran  to  the  win- 
dow and  saw  dashing  down  the  avenue 

a  picture  out  of  Fenimore  Cooper;  a  sad- 
dlclcss  horse  with  a  rider  whose  fmoers 


;    1 


if 


ill 


vi 


:■ 


J 

': 
', 


>r' 


I 


103        v:hc  ZTranslation  of  a  Savage. 


!    \ 


J 


'-,','  -i 


merely  touched  the  bridle,  riding  as  on  a 
journey  of  life  and  death. 

"My  God!  it's  Lali!  She's  mad!  she's 
mad!  She  is  striking  jthat  horse!  It  will 
bolt!     It  will  kill  he   !"  said  the  general. 

Then  he  rushed  for  a  horse  to  follow 
her.  Mrs.  Armour's  hands  clasped  pain- 
fully. For  an  mstant  she  had  almost  the 
same  thought  as  had  Marion  on  the  first 
morning  of  Lali 's  coming;  but  that  passed, 
and  left  her  gazing  helplessly  after  the 
horsewoman.  The  flying  blanket  had 
frightened  the  blooded  horse,  and  he  made 
desperate  efforts  to  fulfil  the  general's 
predictions. 

Lali  soon  found  that  she  had  miscalcu- 
lated. She  was  not  riding  an  Indian 
pony,  but  a  crazed,  high-strung  horse.  As 
they  flew,  she  sitting  superbly  and  tugging 
at  the  bridle,  the  party  coming  from  the 
railway-station  entered  the  great  gate, 
accompanied  by  Richard  and  Marion.  In 
a  moment  they  sighted  this  wild  pair  bear- 
ing down  upon  them  with  a  terrible  swift- 
ness. 

As  IMarion  recognised  Lali  she  turned 
pale  and  cried  out,  rising  in  her  seat.     In- 


•• 


■r 


If 


Bn  BwRwarD  Ihalfslbour. 


103 


stinctively  Captain  Vidall  knew  who  it 
was,  though  he  could  not  guess  the  cause 
of  the  singular  circumstance.  He  saw 
that  the  horse  had  bolted,  but  also  that  the 
rider  seemed  entirely  fearless.  "  Why,  in 
heaven's  name,"  he  said  between  his  teeth, 
"  does  she  not  let  go  that  blanket?" 

At  that  moment  Lali  did  let  it  go,  and 
the  horse  dashed  by  them,  making  hard 
for  the  gate.  "  Turn  the  horses  round  and 
follow  her,"  said  Vidall  to  the  driver. 
While  this  was  doing,  Marion  caught 
sight  of  her  father  riding  hard  down  the 
avenue.  He  passed  them,  and  called  to 
them  to  hurry  on  after  him. 

Lali  had  not  the  slightest  sense  of  fear, 
but  she  knew  that  the  horse  had  gone 
mad.  When  they  passed  through  the  gate 
and  swerved  into  the  road,  a  less  practised 
rider  would  have  been  thrown.  She  sat 
like  wax.  The  pace  was  incredible  for  a 
mile,  and  though  General  iVrmour  rude 
well,  he  was  far  behind. 

vSuddenly  a  trap  appeared  in  the  road  in 
front  of  them,  and  the  driver,  seeing  the 
runaway,  set  his  horses  at  right  angles  to 
the  road.     It  served  the  purpose  only  to 


■  * 
i 


ii 


f- 


!  i 


■': 


It 
'II 


ill 


■ 


1 


it 


104       Cbc  G:rau6lat(on  of  a  Savage. 

provide  another  danger.  Not  far  from 
where  the  trap  was  drawn,  and  between 
it  and  the  runaway,  was  a  lane,  which 
ended  at  a  farm-yard  in  a  cul-dC'Sac.  The 
horse  swerved  into  it,  not  slacking  its  pace, 
and  in  the  fraction  of  a  mile  came  to  the 
farm-yard. 

But  now  the  fever  was  in  Lali's  blood. 
She  did  not  care  whether  she  lived  or  died. 
A  high  hedge  formed  the  cul-de-sac.  When 
she  saw  the  horse  slacking  she  cut  it  sav- 
agely across  the  head  twice  with  a  whip, 
and  drove  him  at  the  green  wall.  He  was 
of  too  good  make  to  refuse  it,  stiff  as  it 
was.  He  rose  to  it  magnificently,  and 
cleared  it;  but  almost  as  he  struck  the 
ground  squarely,  he  staggered  and  fell, — 
the  girl  beneath  him.  He  had  burst  a 
blood-vessel.  The  ground  was  soft  and 
wet;  the  weight  of  the  horse  prevented 
her  from  getting  free.  She  felt  its  hoof 
striking  in  its  death-struggles,  and  once 
her  shoulder  was  struck.  Instinctively 
she  buried  her  face  in  the  mud,  and  her 
arms  covered  her  head. 

And  then  she  knew  no  more. 

When  f:he  came  to,  she  was  in  the  car- 


. 


J 


if 


Bn  BwftwarD  1balf=1)our. 


ion 


riage  within  the  gates  of  Greyhope,  and 
Marion  was  bending  over  her.  She  siid- 
denly  tried  to  lift  herself,  but  could  not. 
Presently  she  saw  another  face,— that  of 
General  Armour.  It  was  stern,  and  yet 
his  eyes  were  swimming  as  he  looked  at 
her. 

*'  Bow  !  "  she  said  to  him  ;  "  Bow  !  "  and 
fainted  again. 


^'[i 


t 


m 

r 


ft  I 
Hi 


i  «1 


■  : 


i 


1  ■ 


f  ■ 


h 


i\ 


f 


i-l? 


CHAPTER   VI. 

THE    PASSING    OF    THE    YEARS. 

ALT'S  recovery  was  not  rapid. 
A  change  had  come  upon  her. 
With  that  strange  ride  had 
gone  the  last  strong  flicker  of 
the  desire  for  savage  life  in  her.  She 
knew  now  the  position  she  held  towards 
her  husband :  that  he  had  never  loved  her ; 
that  she  was  only  an  instrument  for  un- 
worthy retaliation.  So  soon  as  she  could 
speak  after  her  accident,  she  told  them 
that  they  must  not  write  to  him  and  tell 
him  of  it.  She  also  made  them  promise 
that  they  would  give  him  no  news  of  her 
at  all,  save  that  she  was  well.  They  could 
not  refuse  to  promise;  they  felt  she  had 
the  right  to  demand  much  more  than  that. 
They  had  begun  to  care  for  her  for  her- 
self, and  when  the  months  went  by,  and 
one  day  there  was  a  hush  about  her  room, 
and  anxiety,  afid  then  relief,  in  the  faces 

1 06 


■ 


!l: 


Cbe  |pa00(n{j  ot  tbc  L^cara. 


107 


of  all,  they  came  to  care  for  her  still  more 
for  the  sake  of  her  child. 

As  the  weeks  passed,  the  fair-haired 
child  grew  more  and  more  like  his  father; 
but  if  Lali  thought  of  her  husband  they 
never  knew  by  anything  she  said,  for  she 
would  not  speak  of  him.  She  also  made 
them  promise  that  they  would  not  write 
to  him  of  the  child's  birth.  Richard,  with 
his  sense  of  justice,  and  knowing  how 
much  the  woman  had  been  wronged,  said 
that  in  all  this  vShe  had  done  quite  right; 
that  Frank,  if  he  had  done  his  duty  after 
marrying  her,  should  have  come  with  her. 
And  because  they  all  felt  that  Richard 
had  been  her  best  friend  as  well  as  their 
own,  they  called  the  child  after  him. 
This  also  was  Lali's  wish.  Coincident 
with  her  motherhood  there  came  to  Lali  a 
new  purpose.  She  had  not  lived  with  the 
Armours  without  absorbing  some  of  their 
fine  social  sense  and  dignity.  This,  added 
to  the  native  instinct  of  pride  in  her,  gave 
her  a  new  ambition.  As  hour  by  hour  her 
child  grew  dear  to  her,  so  hour  by  hour 
her  husband  grew  away  from  her.  She 
schooled  herself   against  him.     At  times 


'l 


m 


i  ::i 


H^ 


jl 


108 


Zbc  ^Translation  ot  a  Sarasc. 


M 


she  thought  she  hated  him.  vShc  felt  she 
could  never  forgive  him,  but  she  would 
prove  to  him  that  it  was  she  who  had 
made  the  mistake  of  her  life  in  marrying 
him;  that  she  had  been  wronged,  not  he; 
and  that  his  sin  would  face  him  with  re- 
proach and  punishment  one  day.  Rich- 
ard's prophecy  was  likely  to  come  true: 
she  would  defeat  very  perfectly  indeed 
Frank's  intentions.  After  the  child  was 
born,  so  soon  as  she  was  able,  she  renewed 
her  studies  with  Richard  and  Mrs.  Armour. 
She  read  every  morning  for  hours;  she 
rode ;  she  practised  all  those  graceful  arts 
of  the  toilet  which  belong  to  the  social  con- 
vention; she  showed  an  unexpected  faculty 
for  singing,  and  practised  it  faithfully; 
and  she  begged  Mrs.  Armour  and  Marion 
to  correct  her  at  every  point  where  correc- 
tion seemed  necessary.  When  the  child 
was  two  years  old,  they  all  went  to  Lon- 
don,   something    against    Lali's  personal 

in  accord  with  what 


»gs. 


quit( 


she  felt  her  duty. 

Richard  was  left  behind  at  Greyhope. 
For  the  first  time  in  eighteen  months  he 
was  alone  with  his  old  quiet  duties  and 


u 


(Tbe  pas0fn(j  of  tbc  JL)car6. 


109 


!      1 

I  I' 


recreations.  During  that  time  he  had  not 
neglected  his  pensioners, — his  poor,  sick, 
halt,  and  blind, — but  a  deeper,  larger  in- 
terest had  come  into  his  life  in  the  person 
of  Lali.  During  all  that  time  she  had 
seldom  been  ut  of  his  sight,  never  out  of 
his  influence  and  tutelage.  His  days  had 
been  full,  his  eveyy  hour  had  been  given 
a  keen  responsible  interest.  As  if  by  tacit 
consent,  every  incident  or  development  of 
Lali's  life  was  influenced  by  his  judgment 
and  decision.  He  had  been  more  to  her 
than  General  Armour,  Mrs.  Armour,  or 
Marion.  Schooled  as  he  was  in  all  the 
ways  of  the  world,  he  had  at  the  same 
time  a  mind  as  sensitive  as  a  woman's, 
an  indescribable  gentleness,  a  persuasive 
temperament.  Since,  years  before,  he 
had  withdrawn  from  the  social  world  and 
become  a  recluse,  many  of  his  finer  quali- 
ties had  gone  into  an  indulgent  seclusion. 
He  had  once  loved  the  world  and  the  gay 
life  of  London,  but  some  imtoward  event, 
coupled  with  a  radical  love  of  retirement, 
had  sent  him  into  years  of  isolation  at 
Greyhope. 

His  tutelar  relations  with  Lali  had  re- 
8 


I: 


■;  \ 


i 


\il 


i 


ir 


t  ■ 


; 


i 


110       ;rbe  ^ranalation  ot  a  Suvagc, 


opened  many  an  old  spring  of  sensation 
and  experience.  Her  shy  dependency, 
her  innocent  inquisitiveness,  had  searched 
out  his  remotest  sympathies.  In  teaching 
her  he  had  himself  been  re-taught.  Be- 
fore she  came  he  had  been  satisfied  with 
the  quiet  usefulness  and  studious  ease  of 
his  life.  But  in  her  presence  something 
of  his  old  youthfulness  came  back,  some 
reflection  of  the  ardent  hopes  of  his  young 
manhood.  He  did  not  notice  the  change 
in  himself.  He  only  knew  that  his  life 
was  very  full.  He  read  later  at  nights, 
he  rose  earlier  in  the  morning.  But,  un- 
consciously to  himself,  he  was  imdergoing 
a  change.  The  more  a  man's  sympathies 
and  emotions  are  active,  the  less  is  he  the 
philosopher.  It  is  only  when  one  has 
withdrawn  from  the  more  personal  influ- 
ence of  the  emotions  that  one's  philosophy 
may  be'  trusted.  One  may  be  interested 
in  mankind  and  still  be  philosophical, — 
may  be,  as  it  were,  the  priest  and  confessor 
to  all  comers.  But  let  one  be  touched  in 
some  vital  corner  in  one's  nature,  and  the 
high  faultless  impartiality  is  gone.  In 
proportion  as  Richard's  interest  in  Lali 


f 


Zbc  paofiino  of  tbc  Ijcara. 


Ill 


had  grown,  the  universal  quality  of  his 
sympathy  had  declined.  Man  is  only  man. 
Not  that  his  benefactions  as  lord  bountiful 
in  the  parish  had  j,n*o\vn  perfunctory,  but 
the  calm  detail  of  his  interest  was  not  so 
definite.  He  was  the  same,  yet  not  the 
same. 

He  was  not  aware  of  any  difference  in 
himself.  He  did  not  know  that  he  looked 
younger  by  ten  years.  Such  is  the  effect 
of  mere  personal  sympathy  upon  a  man's 
look  and  bearing.  When,  therefore,  one 
bright  May  morning  the  family  at  Grey- 
hope,  himself  excluded,  was  ready  to  start 
for  London,  he  had  no  thought  but  that  he 
would  drop  back  into  his  old  silent  life,  as 
it  was  before  Lali  came  and  his  brother's 
child  was  born.  He  was  not  conscious 
that  he  was  very  restless  that  morning ; 
he  scarcely  was  aware  that  he  had  got  up 
two  hours  earlier  than  usual.  At  the 
breakfast-table  he  was  cheerful  and  alert. 
After  breakfast  he  amused  himself  in  play- 
ing with  the  child  till  the  carriage  was 
brought  round.  It  was  such  a  morning  as 
does  not  come  a  dozen  times  a  year  in 
England.     The  sweet  moist  air  blew  from 


J 


^ 


i 


112        (Tbe  (Tranelaticn  o(  a  Savage. 


the  meadows  and  iij)  throui^di  the  lime- 
trees  with  a  warm  insinuating^'  j^ladness. 
The  lawn  sloped  delit^htfnlly  away  to  the 
flowered  embrasures  of  the  park,  and  a 
fragrant  abundance  of  flowers  met  the  eye 
and  cheered  the  senses.  While  Richard 
loitered  on  the  steps  with  the  child  and 
its  nurse,  more  excited  than  he  knew,  Lali 
came  out  and  stood  beside  him.  At  the 
moment  Richard  was  looking,'  into  the  dis- 
tance. He  did  not  hear  her  when  she 
came.  She  stood  near  him  for  a  moment, 
and  did  not  speak.  Her  eyes  followed  the 
direction  of  his  look,  and  idled  tenderly 
with  the  prospect  before  her.  She  did  not 
even  notice  the  child.  The  same  thought 
was  in  the  mind  of  both — with  a  difference. 
Richard  was  wondering  how  anyone  could 
choose  to  change  the  sweet  dignity  of  that 
rural  life  for  the  flaring  hurried  delights 
of  London  and  the  season.  He  had  thought 
this  a  thousand  times,  and  yet,  though 
he  would  have  been  little  willing  to  ac- 
knowledge it,  his  conviction  was  not  so 
impregnable  as  it  had  been. 

Mrs.  Francis  Armour  was  stepping  from 
the   known   to    the    unknown.     vShe   was 


tbc  ipai30ln(i  ot  tbc  Jjcarg. 


113 


Icavin^^  the  precincts  of  a  life  in  which, 
socially,  she  had  been  born  n^ain.  Its 
sweetness  and  bcni^^n  ([uietncss  had  all 
worked  upon  her  nature  and  ori^nn  to 
change  her.  In  that  it  was  an  out-door 
life,  full  of  freshness  and  open-air  vigour, 
it  was  not  antagonistic  to  her  past.  Upon 
this  sympathetic  basis  had  been  imposed 
the  conditions  of  a  fine  social  decorum. 
The  conditions  must  still  exist.  But  how 
would  it  be  when  she  was  withdrawn  from 
this  peaceful  activity  of  nature  and  set 
down  amon^cf  "  those  garish  lights "  in 
Cavendish  Square  and  Piccadilly?  vShe 
hardly  knew  to  what  she  was  going  as  yet. 
There  had  been  a  few  social  functions  at 
Grcyhope  since  she  had  come,  but  that 
could  give  her,  after  all,  but  little  idea  of 
the  swing  and  pressure  of  London  life. 

At  this  moment  she  was  lingering  over 
the  scene  before  her.  She  was  wondering 
with  the  mi/rr  wonder  of  an  awakened 
mind.  She  had  intended  many  times  of 
late  saying  to  Richard  all  the  native  grat- 
itude she  felt;  yet  somehow  she  had  never 
been  able  to  say  it.  The  moment  of  part- 
ing had  come. 


'Ill 


V 


j 

I,:   I 


114        tTbe  translation  of  a  Savage. 

"What  are  you  thinking  of,  Richard?" 
she  said  now. 

He  started  and  turned  towards  her.  "  I 
hardly  know,"  he  answered.  "My 
thoughts  were  drifting." 

"  Richard,"  she  said,  abruptly,  "I  want 
to  thank  5^ou." 

"Thank  me  for  what,  Lali?"  he  ques- 
tioned. 

"  To  thank  you,  Richard,  for  everything, 
— since  I  came,  over  three  5^ears  ago." 

He  broke  out  into  a  soft  little  laugh, 
then,  with  his  old  good-natured  manner, 
caught  her  hand  as  he  did  the  first  night 
she  came  to  Greyhope,  patted  it  in  a 
fatherly  fashion,  and  said,  "  It  is  the  wrong 
way  about,  Lali :  I  ought  to  be  thanking 
you,  not  you  me.  Why,  look,  what  a 
stupid  old  fogy  I  was  then,  toddling  about 
the  place  with  too  much  time  on  my  hands, 
reading  a  lot  and  forgetting  everything; 
and  here  you  came  in,  gave  me  something 
to  do,  made  the  little  I  know  of  any  use, 
and  ran  a  pretty  gold  wire  down  the  rusty 
fiddle  of  life.  If  there  are  any  speeches 
of  gratitude  to  be  made,  they  are  mine, 
they  are  mine." 


^be  ipassing  ot  tbe  l^ears. 


115 


"Richard,"  she  said,  very  quietly  and 
gravely,  "  I  owe  you  more  than  I  can  ever 
say — in  English.  You  have  taught  me  to 
speak  in  your  tongue  enough  for  all  the 
usual  things  of  life,  but  one  can  only  speak 
from  the  depths  of  one's  heart  in  one's  na- 
tive tongue.  And  see,"  she  added,  with  a 
painful  little  smile,  "  how  strange  it  would 
sound  if  I  were  to  tell  you  all  I  thought  in 
the  language  of  my  people, — of  my  people, 
w^hom  I  shall  never  see  again.  Richard, 
can  you  understand  what  it  must  be  to 
have  a  father  whom  one  is  never  likely  to 
see  again? — whom  if  one  did  see  again, 
something  painful  would  happen?  We 
grow  away  from  people  against  our  will ; 
we  feel  the  same  towards  them,  but  they 
cannot  feel  the  same  towards  us;  for  their 
world  is  in  another  hemisphere.  We  want 
to  love  them,  and  we  love,  remember,  and 
are  glad  to  meet  them  again,  but  they  feel 
that  we  are  unfamiliar,  and,  because  wo 
have  grown  different  outwardly,  they  seem 
to  miss  some  chord  that  used  to  ring. 
Richard,  I — I "     She-  paused. 

"Yes,  Lali,"  he  assented,  "yes,  I  \nv 
derstand  you  so  far;  but  speak  out." 


I 


[     i 

1    f 


.;5-# 


f!  i 


116        Tibc  ZTranelatlon  of  a  Savage. 

"  I  am  not  happy,"  she  said.  *'  I  never 
shall  be  happy.  I  have  my  child,  and 
that  is  all  I  have.  I  cannot  go  back  to 
the  life  in  which  I  was  born :  I  must  go 
on  as  I  am,  a  stranger  among  a  strange 
people,  pitied,  suffered,  cared  for  a  little, 
— and  that  is  all." 

The  nurse  had  drawn  away  a  little  dis- 
tance with  the  child.  The  rest  of  the 
family  were  making  their  preparations  in- 
side the  house.  There  was  no  one  near 
to  watch  the  singular  little  drama. 

"You  should  not  say  that,"  he  added: 
"we  all  feel  you  to  be  one  of  us." 

"  But  all  your  world  does  not  feel  me  to 
be  one  of  them,"  she  rejoined. 

"  We  shall  see  about  that,  when  you 
go  up  to  town.  You  are  a  bit  morbid, 
Lali.  I  don't  wonder  at  your  feeling  a 
little  shy;  but  then  you  will  simply  carry 
things  before  you,  —  now  you  take  my 
word  for  it !  For  I  know  London  pretty 
well." 

She  held  out  her  ungloved  hands.  "  Do 
they  compare  with  the  white  hands  of  the 
ladies  you  know?"  she  said. 

*'  They  are  about  the  finest  hands  I  have 


I 


I 


Cbe  Ipa06(ng  of  tbe  L^cars. 


117 


ever  seen,"  he  replied.  "Yon  can't  see 
yourself,  sister  of  mine." 

"  I  do  not  care  very  much  to  see  my- 
self," she  said.  "If  I  had  not  a  maid  I 
expect  I  vShould  look  very  shiftless,  for  I 
don't  care  to  look  in  a  mirror.  My  only 
mirror  used  to  be  a  stream  of  water  in 
summer,"  she  added,  "and  a  corner  of  a 
looking-glass  got  from  the  Hudson's  Bay 
fort  in  the  winter." 

"Well,  you  are  missing  a  lot  of  enjoy- 
ment," he  said,  "if  you  do  not  use  your 
mirror  much.  The  rest  of  us  can  appre- 
ciate what  you  would  see  there." 

She  reached  out  and  touched  his  arm. 
"  Do  you  like  to  look  at  me?"  she  ques- 
tioned, with  a  strange  simple  candour.  For 
the  first  time  in  many  a  year,  Richard 
Armour  blushed  like  a  girl  fresh  from 
school.  The  question  had  come  so  sud- 
denly, it  had  gone  so  quickly  into  a  sensi- 
tive corner  of  his  nature,  that  he  lost  com- 
mand of  himself  for  the  instant,  yet  had 
little  idea  wiiy  the  command  was  lost.  He 
touched  the  fingers  on  his  arm  affection- 
ately. 

"Like  to  look  at  you? — like  to  look  at 


% 


\ .' 


ft 
1  • 


< 


.1  : 
1 


I 


f 


'\\ 


v:^ 


.'I 


i' 


'  J 


t 


;-^ 


118        c:be  ITranslatfon  of  a  Savage. 

you?  Why,  of  course  we  all  like  to  look 
at  you.  You  are  very  fine  and  handsome 
— and  interestin^[j. " 

"  Richard,"  she  said,  drawing  her  hands 
away,  "  is  that  why  you  like  to  look  at 
me?" 

He  had  recovered  himself.  He  laughed 
in  his  old  hearty  way,  and  said,  *'  Yes, 
yes :  why,  of  course !  Come,  let  us  go  and 
see  the  boy,"  he  added,  taking  her  arm 
and  hurrying  her  down  the  steps.  "  Come 
and  let  us  see  Richard  Joseph,  the  pride 
of  all  the  Armours. " 

She  moved  beside  him  in  a  kind  of 
dream.  "  She  had  learned  much  since  she 
came  to  Greyhope,  but  yet  she  could  not 
at  that  moment  have  told  exactly  why  she 
asked  Richard  the  question  that  had  con- 
fused him,  nor  did  she  know  quite  what 
lay  behind  the  question.  But  every  prob- 
lem which  has  life  works  itself  out  to  its 
appointed  end,  if  fumbling  human  fingers 
do  not  meddle  with  it.  Half  the  miseries 
of  this  world  are  caused  by  forcing  issues, 
in  every  problem  of  the  affections,  the 
emotions,  and  the  soul.  There  is  a  law 
working  with  which  there  should  be  no 


i 


if 


le 
b 


i 


Zbc  ipassing  of  tbe  l{?cacs. 


119 


t^ 


tampering,  lest  in  foolish  interruption 
come  only  confusion  and  disaster.  Against 
every  such  question  there  should  be  writ- 
ten the  one  word,  Wait. 

Richard  Armour  stooped  over  the  child. 
*'A  beauty,"  he  said,  "a  perfect  little 
gentleman.  Like  Richard  Joseph  Armour 
there  is  none,"  he  added. 

"Whom  do  you  think  he  looks  like, 
Richard?"  she  asked.  This  was  a  ques- 
tion she  had  never  asked  before  since  the 
child  was  born.  Whom  the  child  looked 
like  everyone  knew;  but  within  the  past 
5^ear  and  a  half  Francis  Armour's  name 
had  seldom  been  mentioned,  and  never  in 
connection  with  the  child.  The  child's 
mother  asked  the  question  with  a  strange 
quietness.  Richard  answered  it  without 
hesitation. 

"The  child  looks  like  Frank,"  he  said. 
"  As  like  him  as  can  be. " 

"I  am  glad,"  she  said,  "for  all  your 
sakes. " 

"You  are  very  deep  this  morning, 
Lali,"  Richard  said,  with  a  kind  of  help- 
lessness. "  Frank  will  be  pretty  proud 
of   the   youngster   when  he   comes  back. 


1 


I 


y     {  i 


120       ZTbe  ITranalation  ot  a  Savage. 

But  he   won't  be   prouder  of  him   than 
I  am." 

*'  I  know  that,"  she  said.  "  Won't  you  be 
lonely  without  the  boy — and  me,  Richard?" 

Again  the  question  went  home. 
"Lonely?  I  should  think  I  would,"  he 
said.  "  I  should  think  I  would.  But 
then,  you  see,  school  is  over,  and  the  mas- 
ter stays  behind  and  makes  up  the  marks. 
You  will  find  London  a  jollier  master  than 
I  am,  Lali.  There'll  be  lots  of  shows, 
and  plenty  to  do,  and  smart  frocks,  and 
no  end  of  feeds  and  frolics;  and  that  is 
more  amusing  than  studying  three  hours 
a  day  with  a  dry  old  stick  like  Dick 
Armour.  I  tell  you  what,  when  Frank 
comes " 

She  interrupted  him.  *'  Do  not  speak 
of  that,  "she  said.  Then,  with  a  sudden 
burst  of  feeling,  though  her  words  were 
scarcely  audible,  "  I  owe  you  everything, 
Richard, — everything  that  is  good.  I  owe 
him  nothing,  Richard, — nothing  but  what 
is  bitter." 

"Hush,  hush,"  he  said;  "you  must  not 
speak  that  way.  Lali,  I  want  to  say  to 
you " 


'it 
III 


j 


^J 


Zbc  ipaaslng  of  tbc  L'cars. 


121 


not 
to 


At  that  moment  General  Armour,  Airs. 
Armour,  and  Marion  appeared  on  the 
door-step,  and  the  carriage  came  wheel ini^ 
up  the  drive.  What  Richard  intended  to 
say  was  left  unsaid.  The  chances  were  it 
never  would  be  said. 

"Well,  well,"  said  General  Armour, 
calling  down  at  them,  "  escort  his  imperial 
highness  to  the  chariot  which  awaits  him, 
and  then  ho!  for  London  town.  Come 
along,  my  daughter,"  he  said  to  Lali, 
"  come  up  here  and  take  the  last  whiff  of 
Greyhope  that  you  will  have  for  six 
months.  Dear,  dear,  what  lunatics  we 
all  are,  to  be  sure!  Why,  we're  as  happy 
as  little  birds  in  their  nests  out  in  the  de- 
cent coimtry,  and  yet  we  scamper  off  to  a 
smoky  old  city  by  the  Thames  to  rush 
along  with  the  world,  instead  of  sitting 
high  and  far  away  from  it  and  watching  it 
go  by.  God  bless  my  soul,  I'm  old  enough 
to  know  better.  Well,  let  nie  help  you 
in,  my  dear," — he  added  to  his  wife, — 
"  and  in  3^ou  go,  IMarion,  and  in  you  go, 
your  imperial  highness," — he  passed  the 
child  awkwardly  in  to  Marion, — "and  in 
you  go,  my   daughter,"  he  added,   as  he 


'  1 

li 


i  I 


fl 


f! 


M 


i 


i 


:: 


>    ^    I 


>      > 


f    1 


■V     t 


I     t 


1:33 


^bc  translation  ot  a  Savage. 


handed  Lali  in,  pressing  her  hand  with  a 
brusque  fatherliness  as  he  did  so.  He 
then  got  in  after  them. 

Richard  came  to  the  side  of  the  carriage 
and  bade  them  all  good-bye  one  by  one. 
Lali  gave  him  her  hand,  but  did  not  speak 
a  word.  He  called  a  cheerful  adieu,  the 
horses  were  whipped  up,  and  in  a  moment 
Richard  was  left  alone  on  the  steps  of  the 
house.  He  stood  for  a  time  looking,  then 
he  turned  to  go  into  the  house,  but  changed 
his  mind,  sat  down,  lit  a  cigar,  and  did 
not  move  from  his  seat  until  he  was  sum- 
moned to  his  lonely  luncheon. 

Nobody  thought  much  of  leaving  Rich- 
ard behind  at  Greyohpe.  It  seemed  the 
natural  thing  to  do.  But  still  he  had  not 
been  left  alone — entirely  alone — for  three 
years  or  more. 

The  days  and  weeks  went  on.  If  Rich- 
ard had  been  accounted  eccentric  before, 
there  was  far  greater  cause  for  the  term 
now.  Life  dragged.  Too  much  had 
been  taken  out  of  his  life  all  at  once;  for, 
in  the  first  place,  the  family  had  been 
drawn  together  more  during  the  trouble 
which  Lali's  advent   had  brought;   then 


( 


I     I 


fi 

i ,. 

\\ 

1 

Cbc  ipasslng  ot  tbc  L'care. 


i2;j 


Lich- 
the 
not 
ree 

.ich- 
[ore, 
lerm 
had 
for, 
)een 
Lible 
then 


) 


the  child  and  its  mother,  his  pupil,  were 
gone  also.  He  wandered  about  in  a  kind 
of  vague  unrest.  The  hardest  thing  in 
this  world  to  get  used  to  is  the  absence  of 
a  familiar  footstep  and  the  cheerful  greet- 
ing of  a  familiar  eye.  And  the  man  with 
no  chick  or  child  feels  even  the  absence  of 
his  dog  from  the  hearth-rug  when  he  re- 
turns from  a  journey  or  his  day's  work. 
It  gives  him  a  sense  of  strangeness  and 
loss.  But  when  it  is  the  voice  of  a  woman 
and  the  hand  of  a  child  that  is  missed,  you 
can  back  no  speculation  upon  that  man's 
mood  or  mind  or  conduct.  There  is  no 
influence  like  the  influence  of  habit,  and 
that  is  how,  when  the  minds  of  people  are 
at  one,  physical  distances  and  differences, 
no  matter  how  great,  are  invisible,  or  at 
least  not  obvious. 

Richard  Armour  was  a  sensible  man; 
but  when  one  morning  he  suddenly  packed 
a  portmanteau  and  went  up  to  town  to 
Cavendish  vSquare,  the  act  might  be  con- 
sidered from  two  sides  of  the  equation. 
If  he  came  back  to  enter  again  into  the 
social  life  which  for  so  many  years  he  had 
abjured,  it  was  not  very  sensible,  because 


■  - 


(' 


I   t 


i.   ,  \ 


124        Cbc  (Translation  of  a  Savage. 

the  world  never  welcomes  its  deserters: 
it  might  if  men  and  women  grew  yoimgcr 
instead  of  older.  If  he  came  to  see  his 
family,  or  because  he  hungered  for  his 
god-child,  or  because — but  we  are  hurry- 
ing the  situation.  It  were  wiser  not  to 
state  the  problem  yet.  The  afternoon  that 
he  arrived  at  Cavendish  Square  all  his 
family  were  out  except  his  brother's  wife. 
Lali  was  in  the  drawing-room,  receiving 
a  visitor  who  had  asked  for  Mrs.  Armour 
and  Mrs.  Francis  Armour.  Tlie  visitor 
was  received  by  Mrs.  Francis  Armour. 
The  visitor  knew  that  Mrs.  Armour  was 
n<^t  at  home.  She  had  by  chance  seen  her 
and  Marion  in  Bond  Street,  and  was  not 
seen  by  them.  She  straightway  got  into 
her  carriage  and  drove  up  to  Cavendish 
Square,  hoping  to  find  Mrs.  Francis  Ar- 
mour at  home.  There  had  been  house- 
parties  at  Greyhope  since  Lali  had  come 
there  to  live,  but  this  visitor,  though  once 
an  intimate  friend  of  the  family,  had  never 
been  a  guest. 

The  visitor  was  Lady  Haldwell,  once 
Miss  Julia  Sherwood,  who  had  made  pos- 
sible what  was  called  Francis  Armour's 


r. 


CI)C  ipa^eliHi  ot  tbc  t?car6. 


l'^5 


nee 
boS' 
Lir's 


tragedy.  vSince  Lali  had  cumc  to  town 
Lady  Haldvvt)!!  had  seen  her,  but  had 
never  met  her.  vShe  was  not  at  heart 
wiekcd,  but  there  are  few  women  who  can 
resist  an  opportunity  of  anatomisiui^  and 
reekonin^i^  up  the  merits  and  demerits  of  a 
woman  who  lias  married  an  old  lover. 
When  that  woman  is  in  the  position  of 
Mrs.  Francis  Armour,  the  situation  has  an 
unusual  piquancy  and  interest.  Hence 
Lady  Haldwell's  journey  of  inquisition  to 
Cavendish  Scjuarc. 

As  Richard  passed  the  drawin^i;-room 
door  to  ascend  the  stairs,  he  recog-nised 
the  voices. 

Once  a  sort  of  heathen  as  Mrs.  Francis 
Armour  had  been,  she  still  could  g^rasp 
the  situation  with  considerable  clearness. 
There  is  nothing  keener  than  one  woman's 
instinct  regarding  another  woman,  where 
a  man  is  concerned.  jMrs.  Francis  Armour 
received  Lady  Haldwell  with  a  quiet  state- 
liness  which,  if  it  did  not  astonish  her, 
gave  her  sufficient  warning  that  matters 
were  not,  in  this  little  comedy,  to  be  all 
her  own  wa}^ 

Thrown  upon  the  mere  resources  of  wit 
9 


:> 


'u 


120        Zbc  Cranalatlon  of  a  Savaflc. 

and  langiiaj^c,  Mrs.  Francis  Arniuur  must 
have  been  at  a  disadvantage.  For  Lady 
Ilaldwell  had  a  j^ood  gift  of  speech,  a 
pretty  talent  for  epithet,  and  no  unneces- 
sary tenderness.  vShe  i)orc  Lali  no  malice. 
She  was  too  decorous  and  high  for  that. 
In  her  mind  tlie  wife  of  the  man  she  had 
discarded  was  a  mere  commonpkice  catas- 
trophe, to  be  viewed  without  horror,  may 
be  with  pity.  She  had  heard  the  alien 
spoken  well  of  by  some  people ;  others  had 
seemed  indignant  that  the  Armours  should 
try  to  push  "a  red  woman  "  into  English 
society.  Truth  is,  the  Armours  did  not 
try  at  all  to  push  her.  For  over  three 
years  they  had  let  society  talk.  They 
had  not  entertained  largely  in  Cavendish 
Square  since  Lali  came,  an^^  "-hose  invited 
to  Greyhope  diad  a  chance  to  refuse  the 
invitations  if  they  chose.  Most  people  did 
not  choose  to  decline  them.  But  Lady 
Haldvvell  was  not  of  that  number.  She 
had  never  been  invited.  But  now  in  town, 
when  entertainment  must  be  more  general, 
she  and  the  Armours  were  prepared  for 
social  interchange. 

Behind  Lady  H  aid  well's  visits  curiosity 


I 


.,  t 


L 


f 


tTbc  ipa00ina  of  tbc  Ijcnre. 


IJT 


iity 


chiefly  ran.  vShe  was  in  a  way  sorry  for 
Frank  Armour,  for  she  had  been  fund  cjf 
him,  after  a  fashion,  always  fonder  of  him 
than  of  Lord  Ilaldwell.  She  had  married 
with  her  finders  holding  the  scales  of  ad- 
vantage; and  Lord  Haldwell  dressed  well, 
was  immensely  rich,  and  the  title  had  a 
charm. 

When  ^Irs.  Francis  Armour  met  her 
with  her  stran^^e,  impressive  di^i^-nity,  she 
was  the  slightest  bit  confused,  but  not 
outwardly,  vShe  had  not  expected  it.  At 
first  Lali  did  not  know  who  her  visitor 
was.  She  had  not  caught  tlic  name  dis- 
tinctly from  the  servant. 

Presently  Lady  Haldwell  said,  as  Lali 
gave  her  hand,  *'  I  am  Lady  Haldwell.  As 
Miss  Sherwood  I  was  an  old  friend  of  your 
husband." 

A  scornful  glitter  came  into  Mrs.  Ar- 
mour's eyes, — a  peculiar  touch  of  bur- 
nished gold,  an  effect  of  the  light  at  a 
certain  angle  of  the  lens.  It  gave  for  the 
instant  an  uncanny  look  to  the  face,  almost 
something  malicious.  She  guessed  why 
this  woman  had  come.  vShe  knew  the 
whole  history  of  the  past,  and  it  touched 


II 


"f 


r 


128 


^be  {Iranslation  ot  a  Savage. 


)  ' 


I  i 


! : 


...         <         :. 


V'll*^ 


(IM 


her  in  a  tender  corner.  She  knew  she  was 
had  at  an  advantag-e.  Before  her  was  a 
woman  perfectly  trained  in  the  fine  social 
life  to  which  she  was  born,  whose  equa- 
nimity w^as  as  regular  as  her  features.  Her- 
self was  by  nature  a  creature  of  impulse, 
uf  the  woods  and  streams  and  open  life. 
The  social  convention  had  been  engrafted. 
As  yet  she  was  used  to  thinking  and  speak- 
ing with  all  candour.  vShe  was  to  have  her 
training  in  the  charms  of  superficiality, 
but  that  was  to  come ;  and  when  it  came  she 
would  not  be  an  unskilful  apprentice.  Per- 
haps the  latent  subtlety  of  her  race  came 
to  help  her  natural  candour  at  the  moment. 
For  she  said  at  once,  in  a  slow,  quiet  tone, — 

"  I  never  heard  my  husband  speak  of 
you.     Will  you  sit  down?" 

*'  And  Mrs.  Armour  and  Marion  are  not 
in? — No,  I  suppose  5''our  huwsband  did  not 
speak  much  of  his  old  friends." 

The  attack  was  studied  and  cruel.  But 
Lady  Haldwell  had  been  stung  by  Mrs. 
Armour's  remark,  and  it  piqued  her  that 
this  was  possible. 

"  Oh,  yes,  he  spoke  of  some  of  his 
friends,  but  not  of  you." 


M 


Cbc  passing  ot  tbe  Ucars. 


129 


nt. 

of 

not 
not 


hat 


his 


"  Indeed !     That  is  strange. " 

"There   was   no   necessity,"  said   Mrs. 
Armour,  quietly. 

"Of  discussing-  me?  I  suppose  not. 
But  by  some  chance " 

"  It  was  just  as  well,  perhaps,  not  to 
anticipate  the  pleasure  of  our  meeting." 

Lady  Haldwell  was  surprised.  She  had 
not  expected  this  cleverness.  They  talked 
casually  for  a  little  time,  the  visitor  try- 
ing in  vain  to  delicately  give  the  conver- 
sation a  personal  turn.  At  last,  a  little 
foolishly,  she  grew  bolder,  with  a  needless 
selfishness. 

*'  So  old  a  friend  of  your  husband  as  I 
am,  I  am  hopeful  you  and  I  may  be  friends 
also." 

Mrs.  Armour  saw  the  move.  "  You  are 
very  kind,"  she  said,  conventionally,  and 
offered  a  cup  of  tea. 

Lady  Haldwell  now  ventured  unwisely. 
She  was  nettled  at  the  other's  self-posses- 
sion. "  But,  then,  in  a  w^ay  I  have  been 
your  friend  for  a  long  time,  Mrs.  Armour." 

The  point  was  veiled  in  a  vague  tone, 
but  Mrs.  Armour  imderstood.  Her  reply 
was  not  wanting. 


Ml 


.li 


■ii 


''[| 


I 


% 


■         1! 
I' 


<:    ,  ! 


t  !:  i" 


I  I 


-    |l;. 


i*    I, 


',1 


130        Zbc  G^canslation  of  a  Savage. 

"Anyone  who  has  been  a  friend  to  my 
husband  has,  naturally,  claims  upon  me." 

Lady  Haldwell,  in  spite  of  herself, 
chafed.  There  was  a  subtlety  in  the  wo- 
man before  her,  not  to  be  reckoned  with 
lightly. 

"And  if  an  enemy?"  she  said,  smiling. 

A  strange  smile  also  flickered  across 
Mrs.  Armour's  face,  as  she  said,  "  If  an 
enemy  of  my  husband  called,  and  was 
penitent,  I  should — offer  her  tea,  no 
doubt." 

"  That  is,  in  ihis  country ;  but  in  your 
own  country,  which,  I  believe,  is  different, 
what  would  you  do?" 

Mrs.  Armour  looked  steadily  and  coldly 
into  her  visitor's  eyes.  "  In  my  country 
enemies  do  not  compel  us  to  be  polite." 

"By  calling  on  you?"  Lady  Haldwell 
was  growing  a  little  reckless.  "  But  then 
that  is  a  savage  country.  We  are  different 
here.  I  suppose,  however,  your  husband 
told  you  of  these  things,  so  that  you  were 
not  surprised.  And  when  does  he  come? 
His  stay  is  protracted.  Let  me  see,  how 
long  is  it?  Ah,  yes,  near  four  years." 
Here    she     became    altogether    reckless. 


I 


U  ' 


f 


Cbe  iPasefncj  of  tbe  L^cara. 


181 


' 


5S, 


which  she  regretted  afterwards,  for  she 
knew,  after  all,  what  was  due  herself. 
"  He  will  come  back,  I  suppose." 

Lady  Haldwell  was  no  coward,  else  she 
had  hesitated  before  speaking  in  that  way 
before  this  woman,  in  whose  blood  was 
the  wildness  of  the  heroical  north.  Per- 
haps she  guessed  the  passion  in  Lali's 
breast,  perhaps  not.  In  any  case  she 
would  have  said  what  she  listed  at  the 
moment. 

Wild  as  were  the  passions  in  Lali's 
breast,  she  thought  on  the  instant  of  her 
child,  of  what  Richard  Armour  would  say; 
for  he  had  often  talked  to  her  aboiit  not 
showing  her  emotions  and  passions,  had 
told  her  that  violence  of  all  kinds  was  not 
wise  or  proper.  Her  fingers  ached  to 
grasp  this  beautiful,  exasperating  woman 
by  the  throat.  But  after  an  effort  at  calm- 
ness she  remained  still  and  silent,  looking 
at  her  visitor  with  a  scornful  dignity. 
Lady  Haldwell  presently  rose, — she  could 
not  endure  the  furnace  of  that  look, — and 
said  good-bye.  She  turned  towards  the 
door.  Mrs.  Armour  remained  immovable. 
At  that  instant,  however,  someone  stepped 


1 


'^ 


I' I 


)■:  'J 


S     I 


132        ^be  tlranelatlon  of  a  Savage. 


u 


I'f  11 


ih'ii 


^-  f 


I    Is 


!:ii. 


It"' 


>■  111' 


i 

f  in 


from  behind  a  large  screen  just  inside  the 
door.  It  was  Richard  Armour.  He  was 
pale,  and  on  his  face  was  a  sternness  the 
like  of  which  this  and  perhaps  only  one 
other  woman  had  ever  seen  on  him.  He 
interrupted  her. 

"Lady  Haldwell  has  a  fine  talent  for 
irony,"  he  said,  "but  she  does  not  always 
use  it  wisely.  In  a  man  it  would  bear 
another  name,  and  from  a  man  it  would 
be  differently  received."  He  came  close 
to  her.  "You  are  a  brave  woman,"  he 
said,  "  or  you  would  have  been  more  care- 
ful. Of  course  you  knew  that  my  mother 
and  sister  were  not  at  home." 

She  smiled  languidly.  "And  why  'of 
course'?" 

"  I  do  not  know  that;  only  I  know  that 
I  think  so ;  and  I  also  think  that  my  brother 
Frank's  worst  misfortune  did  not  occur 
when  Miss  Julia  Sherwood  trafficked  with- 
out compunction  in  his  happiness." 

"Don't  be  oracular,  my  dear  Richard 
Armour, "  she  said ;  "  you  are  trying,  really. 
This  seems  almost  melodramatic;  and 
melodrama  is  bad  enough  in  Drury 
Lane." 


i 


'/ 1 


(Tbc  iPasBfng  of  tbc  L^cars. 


133 


I  at 
ler 

nr 
h- 

rd 


"  You  are  not.  a  good  friend  even  to  your- 
self," he  answered. 

"  What  a  discoverer  you  are!  And  how 
much  in  earnest!  Do  come  back  to  the 
world,  Mr.  Armour :  you  would  be  a  relief, 
a  new  sensation. " 

"  I  fancy  I  shall  come  back,  if  only  to 
see  the  'engineer  hoist  with  his  own' — 
torpedo." 

He  paused  before  the  last  word  to  give 
it  point,  for  her  husband's  father  had 
made  his  money  out  of  torpedoes.  She 
felt  the  sting  in  spite  of  her,  and  she  saw 
the  point. 

"  And  then  we  will  talk  it  over  at  the 
end  of  the  season,"  he  added,  "and  com- 
pare notes.     Good-afternoon." 

"You  stake  much  on  your  hazard,"  she 
said,  glancing  back  at  Lali,  who  still  stood 
immovable.      "  Au  revoir  I  " 

She  left  the  room.  Richard  heard  the 
door  close  after  her  and  the  servant  retire. 
Then  he  turned  to  Lali. 

As  he  did  so,  she  ran  forward  to  him 
with  a  cry.  "Oh,  Richard,  Richard!"  she 
said,  with  a  sob,  threw  her  arms  over  his 
shoulder,  and  let  her  forehead  drop  on  his 


1 1 


ill 


i  ii 


r 


i 


1,.  I      h  I 

!iMi; 
/      'I 


t/ 


■f 


134       XLbc  ^ranelatlon  of  a  Savage. 

■  -■■■  .  ...i—  ■■■     .mm. ■    —      -^  I  ,  ,  111  ■■■■^ 

breast.  Then  came  a  sudden  impulse  in 
his  blood.  Long  after  he  shuddered  when 
he  remembered  what  he  thought  at  that 
instant ;  what  he  wished  to  do ;  what  rich 
madness  possessed  him.  He  knew  now 
why  he  had  come  to  town ;  he  also  knew 
why  he  must  not  stay,  or,  if  staying,  what 
must  be  his  course. 

He  took  her  gently  by  the  arm  and  led 
her  to  a  chair,  speaking  cheerily  to  her. 
Then  he  sat  down  beside  her,  and  all  at 
once  again,  her  face  wet  and  burning,  she 
flung  herself  forward  on  her  knees  beside 
him,  and  clung  to  him. 

"Oh,  Richard,  I  am  glad  you  have 
come,"  she  said.  '"I  would  have  killed 
her  if  I  had  not  thought  of  you.  I  want 
you  to  stay ;  I  am  always  better  when  you 
aie  with  me.  I  have  missed  you,  and  I 
know  that  baby  misses  you  too." 

He  had  his  cue.  He  rose,  trembling  a 
little.  "Come,  come,"  he  said  heartily, 
"it's  all  right,  it's  all  right — my  sister. 
Let  us  go  and  see  the  youngster.  There, 
dry  your  eyes,  and  forget  all  about  that 
woman.  She  is  only  envious  of  you. 
Come,  for  his  imperial  highness!" 


Zbc  ipassfng  of  tbc  Itiears. 


135 


She  was  in  a  tumult  of  feeling.  It  was 
seldom  that  she  had  shown  emotion  in  the 
past  two  years,  and  it  was  the  more  ample 
when  it  did  break  forth.  But  she  dried 
her  eyes,  and  together  they  went  to  the 
nursery.  She  dismissed  the  nurse,  and 
they  were  left  alone  by  the  sleeping  child. 
She  knelt  at  the  head  of  the  little  cot  and 
touched  the  child's  forehead  with  her  lips. 
He  stooped  down  also  beside  it. 

"He's  a  grand  little  fellow,"  he  said. 
"Lali,"  he  continued,  presently,  "it  is 
time  Frank  came  home.  I  am  going  to 
write  for  him.  If  he  does  not  come  at 
once,  I  shall  go  and  fetch  him." 

"Never!  never!"  Her  eyes  flashed  an- 
grily. "  Promise  that  you  will  not.  Let 
him  come  when  he  is  ready.  He  does  not 
care."     She  shuddered  a  little. 

"  But  he  will  care  when  he  comes,  and 
you — you  care  for  him,  Lali." 

Again  she  shuddered,  and  a  whiteness 
ran  under  the  hot  excitement  of  her  cheeks. 
She  said  nothing,  but  looked  up  at  him, 
then  dropped  her  face  in  her  hands. 

"You  do  care  for  him,  Lali,"  he  said, 
earnestly,  almost  solemnly,  his  lips  twitch-' 


i  > 


k\ 


ih 


13G 


,i| 


^be  c;ran0lation  ot  a  Savage. 


ing  slightly.  "  You  must  care  for  him  ;  it 
is  his  right:  c,nd  he  will — I  swear  to  you 
I  know  he  will — care  for  you." 

In  his  own  mind  there  was  another 
though^  a  hard,  strange  thought ;  and  it 
had  to  do  with  the  possibility  of  his  brother 
not  caring  for  this  wife. 

Still  she  did  not  speak. 

"  To  a  good  woman,  with  a  good  hus- 
band," he  continued,  "there  is  no  one — 
there  should  be  no  one — like  the  father  of 
her  child.  And  no  woman  ever  loved  her 
child  more  than  you  do  yours."  He  knew 
that  this  was  special  pleading. 

She  trembled,  and  then  dropped  her 
cheek  beside  the  child's.  "  I  want  Frank 
to  be  happy,"  he  went  on:  "there  is  no 
one  I  care  more  for  than  for  Frank." 

She  lifted  her  face  to  him  now,  in  it  a 
strange  light.  Then  her  look  ran  to  con- 
fusion, and  she  seemea  to  read  all  that  he 
meant  to  convey.  He  knew  she  did.  He 
touched  her  shoulder. 

"  You  must  do  the  best  you  can  every 
way,  for  Frank's  sake,  for  all  our  sakes. 
I  will  help  you — God  knows  I  will — all  I 
can." 


I{ 


tlbc  ipasslfifl  of  tbc  Jicare, 


VVi 


"  Oh,  yes,  yes,"  she  said,  from  the  child's 
pillow.  He  could  see  the  flame  in  her 
cheek.  "  I  understand. "  She  put  out  her 
hand  to  him,  but  did  not  look  up.  "  Leave 
me  alone  with  my  baby,  Richard,  she 
pleaded. 

He  took  her  hand  and  pressed  it  again 
and  again  in  his  old,  unconscious  way. 
Then  he  let  it  go,  and  went  slowly  to  the 
door.  There  he  turned  and  looked  back 
at  her.  He  mastered  the  hot  thought  in 
him. 

"God  help  me!"  she  murmured  from 
the  cot. 

The  next  morning  Richard  went  back 
to  Greyhope. 


1    ]\ 


!■; 


\i 


CHAPTER    VII. 

A     COURT-MARTIAL. 

iT  was  hard  to  tell,  save  for  a  cer- 
tain deliberateness  of  speech 
and  a  colour  a  little  more  pro- 
nounced than  that  of  a  Spanish 
woman,  that  Mrs.  Frank  Armour  had  not 
been  brought  up  in  England.  She  had  a 
kind  of  grave  sweetness  and  distant  charm 
which  made  her  notable  at  any  table  or  in 
an)'  ball-room.  Indeed,  it  soon  became 
apparent  that  she  was  to  be  the  pleas- 
ant talk,  the  interest  of  the  season.  This 
was  tolerably  comforting  to  the  Armours. 
Again  Richard's  prophecy  had  been  ful- 
filled, and  as  he  sat  alone  at  Greyhope 
and  read  the  Morning  Post,  noticing  Lali's 
name  at  distinguished  gatherings,  or,  pick- 
ing up  the  World,  saw  how  the  lion-hunters 
talked  extravagantly  of  her,  he  took  some 
satisfaction  to  himself  that  he  had  foreseen 
her  triumph  where  others  looked  for  her 

13S 


I 


I 


B  Court*/lftartial. 


139 


I, 


downfall.  Lali  herself  was  not  elated:  it 
gratified  her,  but  she  had  been  an  angel, 
and  a  very  unsatisfactory  one,  if  it  had  not 
done  so.  As  her  confidence  grew  (though 
outwardly  she  had  never  appeared  to  lack 
it  greatly),  she  did  not  hesitate  to  speak 
of  herself  as  an  Indian,  her  country  as  a 
good  country,  and  her  people  as  a  noble 
if  dispossessed  race;  all  the  more  so  if 
she  thought  reference  to  her  nationality 
and  past  was  being  rather  conspicuously 
avoided.  She  had  asked  General  Armour 
for  an  interview  with  her  husband's  solic- 
itor. This  was  granted.  When  she  met 
the  solicitor,  she  asked  him  to  send  no 
newspaper  to  her  husband  containing  any 
reference  to  herself,  nor  yet  to  mention 
her  in  his  letters. 

She  had  never  directly  received  a  line 
from  him  but  once,  and  that  was  after  she 
had  come  to  know  the  truth  about  his 
marriage  with  her.  She  could  read  in  the 
conventional  sfmtenccs,  made  simple  as 
for  a  child,  the  strained  politeness,  and 
his  absolute  silence  as  to  whether  or  not  a 
child  had  been  born  to  them,  the  utter  ab- 
sence of  affection  for  her.     She  had  also 


I 


•r  I' 


i  i 


140        Zbc  Zvmelntion  ot  a  Savaoe. 

induced  General  Armour  and  his  wife  to 
give  her  husband's  solicitor  no  informa- 
tion regarding  the  birth  of  the  child. 
There  was  thus  apparently  no  more  in- 
ducement for  him  to  hurry  back  to  Eng- 
land than  there  was  when  he  had  sent  her 
off  on  his  mission  of  retaliation,  which 
had  been  such  an  ignominious  failure. 
For  the  humiliation  of  his  family  had  been 
short-lived,  the  affront  to  Lady  Haldwell 
nothing  at  all.  The  Armours  had  not 
been  human  if  they  had  failed  to  enjoy 
their  daughter-in-law's  success.  Although 
they  never,  perhaps,  would  quite  recover 
the  disappointment  concerning  Lady  Ag- 
nes Martling,  the  result  was  so  much 
better  than  they  in  their  cheerfullest  mo- 
ments dared  hope  for,  that  they  appeared 
genuinely  content. 

To  their  grandchild  they  were  devotedly 
attached.  Marion  was  his  faithful  slave 
and  admirer,  so  much  so  that  Captain 
Vidall,  who  now  and  then  was  permitted 
to  see  the  child,  declared  himself  jealous: 
he  and  Marion  were  to  be  married  soon. 
The  wedding  had  been  delayed  owing  to 
his   enforced  absence  abroad.     Mrs.    Ed- 


» 


•n 


B  Court^/libartlaL 


141 


ward  Lambert,  once  Mrs.  Townlcy,  shyly 
regretted  in  Lali's  presence  that  the  child, 
or  one  as  sweet,  was  not  hers.  Ilcr  hus- 
band evidently  shared  her  opinion,  from 
the  extraordinary  notice  he  took  of  it  wlicn 
his  wife  was  not  present.  Not  that  Richard 
J()sei:)h  Armour,  Jr.,  was  always  en  c^riiirnci\ 
but  when  asked  for  by  his  faithful  friends 
and  admirers  he  was  amiably  produced. 

Meanwhile,  Frank  Armour  across  the 
sea  was  engaged  with  many  things.  His 
business  concerns  had  not  prospered  pro- 
digiously, chiefly  because  his  judgment, 
as  his  temper,  had  grown  somewhat  un- 
certain. His  popularity  in  the  Hudson's 
Bay  country  had  been  at  some  tension 
since  he  had  shipped  his  wife  away  to 
England.  Even  the  ordinary  savage  mind 
saw  something  imusual  and  imdomestic  in 
it,  and  the  general  hospitality  declined  a 
little.  Armour  did  not  immediately  guess 
the  cause ;  but  one  day,  about  a  year  after 
his  wife  had  gone,  he  found  occasion  to 
reprove  a  half-breed,  by  name  Jacques 
Pontiac;  and  Jacques,  with  more  honesty 
than  politeness,  said  some  hard  words, 
and  asked  how  much  he  paid  for  his  Eng- 

10 


if!^ 


I 


I 


f  ■ 


•i,  ^ 


143        tTbc  translation  ot  a  Savage. 


lish  hired  devils  to  kill  his  wife.  Strange 
to  say,  he  did  not  resent  this  startling  re- 
mark. It  set  him  thinking.  He  began 
to  bkime  himself  for  not  having  written 
oftener  to  his  people — and  to  his  wife. 
He  wondered  how  far  his  revenge  had 
succeeded.  He  was  most  ashamed  of  it 
now.  He  knew  that  he  had  done  a  dishon- 
ourable thing.  The  more  he  thought  upon 
it  the  more  angry  with  himself  he  became. 
Yet  he  dreaded  to  go  back  to  England  and 
face  it  all:  the  reproach  of  his  people; 
the  amusement  of  society ;  his  wife  herself. 
He  never  attempted  to  picture  her  as  a  civ- 
ilised being.  He  scarcely  knew  her  when 
he  married  her.  She  knew  him  much 
better,  for  primitive  people  are  quicker  in 
the  play  of  their  passions,  and  she  had 
come  to  love  him  before  he  had  begun  to 
notice  her  at  all. 

Presently  he  ate  his  heart  out  with  mor- 
tification. To  be  yoked  for  ever  to— a  sav- 
age! It  was  horrible!  And  their  chil- 
dren? It  was  strange  he  had  not  thought 
of  that  before.  Children? — He  shrugged 
his  shoulders.  There  might  possibly  be 
a    child,    but    children — never!      But   he 


f 


V^ 


B  Court*/Iftartial. 


143 


doubted  even  regarding  a  child,  for  no 
word  had  come  to  him  concerning  that 
possibilit5\  He  was  even  most  puzzled  at 
the  tone  and  substani.e  of  their  letters. 
From  the  beginnixig  there  had  been  no  re- 
proaches, no  excitement,  no  railing,  but 
studied  kindness  and  conventional  state- 
ments, through  which  Mrs.  Armour's  so- 
licitous affection  scarcely  ever  peeped. 
He  had  shot  his  bolt,  and  got — considera- 
tion, almost  imperturbability.  They  ap- 
peared to  treat  the  matter  as  though  he 
were  a  wild  youth  who  would  yet  mend 
his  ways.  He  read  over  their  infrequent 
letters  to  him ;  his  to  them  had  been  still 
more  infrequent.  In  one  there  was  the 
statement  that  ''  she  was  progressing  fa- 
vourably with  her  English;"  in  another, 
that  "  she  was  riding  a  good  deal ;"  again, 
that  "  she  appeared  anxious  to  adapt  her- 
self to  her  new  life." 

At  all  these  he  whistled  a  little  to  him- 
self, and  smiled  bitterly.  Then,  all  at 
once,  he  got  up  and  straightway  burned 
them  all.  He  again  tried  to  put  the  mat- 
ter behind  him  for  the  present,  knowing 
that  he  must  face  it  one  day,  and  staving 


i 

^" 'I 

1 

•V 


Jl 


! 


tl 

1 

p 

1 

1 

( 

1 

;         ' 

h  < 


144        ^be  ^ranelatlon  of  a  Savage. 

off  its  reality  as  long  as  possible.  He  did 
his  utmost  to  be  philosophical  and  say  his 
^lu'J  rcfcrt,  but  it  was  easier  tried  than 
done;  for  Jacques  Pontiac's  words  kept 
rankling  in  his  mind,  and  he  found  him- 
self carrying  round  a  vague  load  which 
made  him  abstracted  occasionally,  and 
often  a  little  reckless  in  action  and  speech. 
In  hunting  bear  and  moose  he  had  proved 
himself  more  daring  than  the  oldest  hunt- 
er, and  proportionately  successful.  He 
paid  his  servants  well,  but  was  sharp  with 
them. 

He  made  long  hard  expeditions,  defy- 
ing the  weather  as  the  hardiest  of  prai- 
rie and  mountain  men  mostly  hesitate  to 
defy  it;  he  bought  up  much  land,  then, 
dissatisfied,  sold  it  again  at  a  loss,  but 
subsequently  made  final  arrangements  for 
establishing  a  very  large  farm.  When  he 
once  became  actiiall)^  interested  in  this  he 
shook  off  something  of  his  moodiness  and 
settled  himself  to  develop  the  thing.  He 
had  good  talent  for  initiative  and  adminis- 
tration, and  at  last,  in  the  time  when  his 
wife  was  a  feature  of  the  London  season, 
he  found  his  scheme  in  working  order,  and 


B  Courts/iibartial. 


145 


the  necessity  of  going-  to  England  was 
forced  upon  him. 

Actually  he  wished  that  the  absolute 
necessity  had  presented  itself  before. 
There  was  always  the  moral  necessity,  of 
course — but  then !  Here  now  was  a  busi- 
ness need ;  and  he  must  go.  Yet  he  did 
not  fix  a  day  or  make  definite  arrange- 
ments. He  could  hardly  have  believed 
himself  such  a  coward.  With  liberal  em- 
phasis he  called  himself  a  sneak,  and  one 
day  at  Fort  Charles  sat  down  to  write  to  his 
solicitor  in  Montreal  to  say  that  he  would 
come  on  at  once.  Still  he  hesitated.  As 
he  sat  there  thinking,  Eye-of-the-Moon, 
his  father-in-law,  opened  the  door  quietly 
and  entered.  He  had  avoided  the  chief 
ever  since  he  had  come  back  to  Fort 
Charles,  and  practically  had  not  spoken  to 
him  for  a  year.  Armour  flushed  slightly 
with  annoyance.  But  presently  with  a 
touch  of  his  old  humour  he  rose,  held  out 
his  hand,  and  said,  ironically,  "Well, 
father-in-law,  it's  about  time  we  had  a 
big  talk,  isn't  it?  We  are  not  very  inti- 
mate for  such  close  relatives." 

The  old  Indian  did  not  fully  understand 


;  1^ 

'4 


:     1.^ 


m 


f 

F  i'^    J 

\i 

1 

146        tibe  G^ranslatfon  of  a  Savage. 


\i 


the  meaning  or  the  tone  of  Armour's 
speech,  but  he  said,  "//cw/"  and,  reach- 
ing out  his  hand  for  the  pipe  offered  him, 
lighted  it,  and  sat  down,  smoking  in  si- 
lence. Armour  waited;  but,  seeing  that 
the  other  was  not  yet  moved  to  talk,  he 
turned  to  his  letter  again.  After  a  time, 
Eye-of-the-Moon  said,  gravely,  getting  to 
his  feet,  "Brother!" 

Armour  looked  up,  then  rose  also.  The 
Indian  bowed  to  him  courteously,  then  sat 
down  again.  Armour  threw  a  leg  over 
the  corner  of  the  table  and  waited. 

"Brother,"  said  the  Indian,  presently, 
"  you  are  of  the  great  race  that  conquers 
us.  You  come  and  take  our  land  and  our 
game,  and  w^e  at  last  have  to  beg  of  you 
for  food  and  shelter.  Then  you  take  our 
daughters,  and  we  know  not  where  they 
go.  They  are  gone  like  the  down  from 
the  thistle.  We  see  them  not,  but  you 
remain.  And  men  say  evil  things.  There 
are  bad  words  abroad.  Brother,  what 
have  you  done  with  my  daughter?" 

Had  the  Indian  come  and  stormed, 
begged  money  of  him,  sponged  on  him, 
or    abused    him,    he   had  taken    it  very 


a  Court*/IRartlal, 


147 


calmly, — he,  in  fact,  had  been  superior. 
But  there  was  dignity  in  the  chief's  man- 
ner; there  was  solemnity  in  his  speech; 
his  voice  conveyed  resoluteness  and  ear- 
nestness, which  the  stoic  calm  of  his  face 
might  not  have  suggested;  an  1  Armour 
felt  that  he  had  no  advantage  at  all.  Be- 
sides, Armour  had  a  conscience,  though 
he  had  played  some  rare  tricks  with  it  of 
late,  and  it  needed  more  hardihood  than 
he  possessed  to  face  this  old  man  down. 
And  why  face  him  down?  Lali  was  his 
daughter,  blood  of  his  blood,  the  chief- 
tainess  of  one  branch  of  his  people,  hon- 
oured at  least  among  these  poor  savages, 
and  the  old  man  had  a  right  to  ask,  as 
asked  another  more  famous,  ''  Where  is 
my  daughter?" 

His  hands  in  his  pockets,  Armour  sat 
silent  for  a  minute,  eying  his  boot,  as  he 
swung  his  leg  to  and  fro.  Presently  he 
said,  "  Eye-of-the-Moon,  I  don't  think  I 
can  talk  as  poetically  as  you,  even  in  my 
own  language,  and  I  shall  not  try.  But  I 
should  like  to  ask  you  this:  Do  you  be- 
lieve any  harm  has  come  to  your  daughter 
— to  my  wife?" 


ii 


1 1 


..-ii 


H 


^ 


il 


If- 


I 


ill 


148       Zbc  translation  of  a  Savage. 

The  old  Indian  forgot  to  blow  the  to- 
bacco-smoke from  his  mouth,  and,  as  he 
sat  debating,  lips  slightly  apart,  it  came 
leaking  out  in  little  trailing  clovids  and 
gave  a  strange  appearance  to  his  iron- 
featured  face.  He  looked  steadily  at  Ar- 
mour, and  said,  "  You  are  of  those  who 
rule  in  your  land," — here  Armour  pro- 
tested,— ''you  have  much  gold  to  buy  and 
sell.  I  am  a  chief," — he  drew  himself 
up, — "I  am  poor:  we  speak  with  the 
straight  tongue;  it  is  cowards  who  lie. 
Speak  deep  as  from  the  heart,  my  brother, 
and  tell  me  where  mv*dauofhter  is."  Ar- 
mour  could  not  but  respect  the  chief  for 
the  way  this  request  was  put,  but  still  it 
galled  him  to  think  that  he  was  under 
suspicion  of  having  done  any  bodily  in- 
jury to  his  wife,  so  he  quietly  persisted: 
"  Do  you  think  I  have  done  Lali  any 
harm?" 

"The  thing  is  strange,"  replied  the 
other.  "  You  are  of  those  who  are  great 
among  your  people.  You  married  a 
daughter  of  a  red  man.  Then  she  was 
yours  for  less  than  one  moon,  and  you 
sent  her  far  away,  and  you  stayed.     Her 


I 


)',  h 


il' 


B  Court*/lRartial, 


149 


father  was  as  a  dog  in  your  sight.  Do 
men  whose  hearts  are  clear  act  so?  They 
have  said  strange  things  of  you.  I  have 
not  believed;  but  it  is  good  I  know  all, 
that  I  may  say  to  the  tale-bearers,  You 
have  crooked  tongues. " 

Armour  sat  for  a  moment  longer,  his 
face  turned  to  the  open  window.  He  was 
perfectly  still,  but  he  had  become  grave. 
He  was  about  to  reply  to  the  chief,  when 
the  trader  entered  the  room  hurriedly  with 
a  newspaper  in  his  hand.  He  paused 
abruptly  when  he  saw  Eye-of-the-Moon. 
Armour  felt  that  the  trader  had  something 
important  to  communicate.  He  guessed 
it  was  in  the  paper.  He  mutely  held  out 
his  hand  for  it.  The  trader  handed  it  to 
him  hesitatingly,  at  the  same  time  point- 
ing to  a  paragraph,  and  saying,  "  It  is 
nearly  two  years  old,  as  you  see.  I  chanced 
uiK)n  it  by  accident  to-day." 

It  was  a  copy  of  a  London  evening  pa- 
per, containing  a  somewhat  sensational 
account  of  Lali's  accident.  It  said  that 
she  was  in  a  critical  condition.  This  time 
Armour  did  not  ask  for  brandy,  but  the 
trader  put  it  out  beside  him.     He  shook 


i  m 


t  ! 


II 


I  ! 


•      {| 


■  !       I 

I  i 

!  i 


I' 


.1 


fi 


?' 


^ 


150        XLbc  translation  of  a  Sa^^a^c. 


his  head.  "Gordon,"  he  said  presently, 
*'  I  shall  leave  here  in  the  morning.  Please 
send  my  men  to  me." 

The  trader  whispered  to  him :  "  She  was 
all  right,  of  course,  long  ago,  Mr.  Armour, 
or  yon  would  have  heard." 

Armour  looked  at  the  date  of  the  paper. 
He  had  several  letters  from  England  of 
a  later  date,  and  these  said  nothing  of 
her  illness.  It  bewildered  him,  made  him 
imeasy.  Perhaps  the  first  real  sense  of  his 
duty  as  a  husband  came  home  to  him 
there.  For  the  fii"st  time,  he  was  anxious 
about  the  woman  for  her  own  sake.  The 
trader  had  left  the  room. 

"  What  a  scoundrel  I've  been  !"  said  Ar- 
mour between  his  teeth,  oblivious,  for  the 
moment,  of  Eye-of-the-Moon's  presence. 
Presently,  bethinking  himself,  he  turned 
to  the  Indian.  "I've  been  debating,"  he 
said.  "  Eye-of-the-Moon,  my  wife  is  in 
England,  at  my  father's  home.  I  am 
going  to  her.  Men  have  "iied  in  thinking 
I  would  do  her  any  injury ,  but,  but — never 
mind,  the  harm  was  of  another  kind.  It 
isn't  wise  for  a  white  man  and  an  Indian 
to  marry,  but  when  they  are  married — 


\ 


B  Court*/IBarttal. 


1M 


;ently, 
Please 

le  was 
mour, 

3aper. 
nd  of 
ig  of 
e  him 
of  his 

him 
xious 

The 

d  Ar- 
•r  the 
ence. 
irned 
,"he 
is  in 
'.  am 
king 
lever 
.  It 
dian 
ed— 


well,  they  must  live  as  inan  and  wife 
should  live,  and,  as  I  said,  I  am  going  to 
my  wife — your  daughter." 

To  say  all  this  to  a  common  Indian, 
whose  only  property  was  a  half -dozen  po- 
nies and  a  couple  of  tepees,  required 
something  very  like  moral  courage;  but 
then  Armour  had  not  been  exercising 
moral  courage  during  the  last  year  or  so, 
and  its  exercise  was  profitable  to  him. 
The  next  morning  he  was  on  his  way  to 
Montreal,  and  Eye-of-the-Moon  was  the 
richest  chief  in  British  North  America,  at 
that  moment,  by  five  thousand  dollars  or  so. 


I  I 

t 


it 


I 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

TO    EVERY    M/iN    HIS    HOUR. 

T  was  the  close  of  the  season: 
many  people  had  left  town, 
but  festivities  were  still  on. 
To  a  stranger  the  season  might 
have  seemed  at  its  height.  The  Armours 
were  giving  a  large  party  in  Cavendish 
Square  before  going  back  again  to  Grey- 
hope,  w^here,  for  the  sake  of  Lali  and  her 
child,  they  intended  to  remain  during  the 
rest  of  the  summer,  in  preference  to  going 
on  the  Continent  or  to  vScotland.  The  only 
unsatisfactory  feature  of  Lali's  season  was 
the  absence  of  her  husband.  Naturally 
there  were  those  who  said  strange  things  re- 
garding Frank  Armour's  stay  in  America; 
but  it  was  pretty  generally  known  that  he 
was  engaged  in  land-speculations,  and  his 
club  friends,  who  perhaps  took  the  pleas- 
antest  view  of  the  matter,  said  that  he  was 
very  wise  indeed,  if  a  little  cowardly,  in 

152 


i 


*s . 


^0  JExfCt^  iKsm  1b\e  1bour. 


15;] 


on. 


/ 


stayinj^^  abroad  until  hivS  wife  was  educated 
and  ready  to  take  her  position  in  society. 
There  was  one  thing  on  which  they  were 
ail  a-^reed:  Mrs.  Frank  Armour  either 
had  a  mind  superior  to  the  charms  of  their 
sex,  or  was  incapable  of  that  vanity  which 
hath  many  suitors,  and  says,  "  vSo  far  shalt 

thou    go,    and "      The    fact   is,    Mrs. 

Frank  Armour's  mind  was  superior.  vShe 
had  only  one  object, — to  triumph  over  her 
husband  grandly,  as  a  woman  righteously 
might.  She  had  vanity,  of  course,  but  it 
was  not  ignoble.  She  kept  one  thing  in 
view ;  she  lived  for  it.  Her  translation 
had  been  successful.  There  were  times 
when  :>he  'emembered  her  father,  the  wild 
days  on  the  prairies,  the  buffalo-hunt, 
tracking  the  deer,  tribal  battles,  the  long 
silent  hours  of  the  winter,  and  the  warm 
vsummer  niglits  when  she  slept  in  the 
prairie  grass  or  camped  with  her  people  in 
the  trough  of  a  great  land-wave.  Some- 
times the  hunger  for  its  freedom,  and  its 
idleness,  and  its  sport,  came  to  her  greatly; 
but  she  thought  of  her  child,  and  she  put 
it  from  her.  She  was  ambitious  for  him ; 
she  w^as  keen  to  prove  her  worth  as  a  wife 


154        Xlbc  Zvamlation  ot  a  Savage* 


ap^ainst  her  husband's  tinworthincss.  This 
perhaps  saved  her.  She  mij^ht  have  h)St 
had  her  life  been  without  this  motive. 

The  very  moriiii\jjf  of  this  notable  recep- 
tion, General  Armour  had  received  a  note 
from  Frank  Armour's  scjlicitor,  saying 
that  his  son  was  likely  to  arrive  in  London 
from  America  that  day  or  the  next.  Frank 
had  written  to  his  people  no  word  of  his 
coming;  to  his  wife,  as  we  have  said,  he 
had  not  written  for  months;  and  before 
he  started  back  he  would  not  write,  be- 
cause he  wished  to  make  what  amends  he 
could  in  person.  He  expected  to  find  her 
improved,  of  course,  but  still  he  could 
only  think  of  her  as  an  Indian,  showing 
her  common  prairie  origin.  His  knowl- 
edge of  her  before  their  marriage  had  been 
particularly  brief;  she  was  little  more  in 
his  eyes  than  a  thousand  other  Indian 
women,  save  that  she  was  better-looking, 
was  whiter  than  most,  and  had  finer  fea- 
tures. He  could  not  very  clearly  remember 
the  tones  of  her  voice,  because  after  mar- 
riage, and  before  he  had  sent  her  to  Eng- 
land, he  had  seen  little  or  nothing  of  her. 

When   General    Armour    received    the 


Co  JCvcre  /tan  1bit3  t)our. 


155 


news  of  Frank's  return,  he  told  his  wife 
and  Marion,  and  they  consulted  to^^ether 
whether  it  were  good  to  let  Lali  know  at 
once.  He  mi^dit  arrive  that  evening.  If 
so,  the  position  would  be  awkward,  be- 
cause it  was  impossible  to  tell  how  it 
might  affect  her.  If  they  did  tell  her,  and 
Frank  happened  not  to  arrive,  it  might 
unnerve  her  so  as  to  make  her  appearance 
in  the  evening  doubtful.  Richard,  the 
wiseacre,  the  inexhaustible  Richard,  was 
caring  for  his  cottagers  and  cutting  the 
leaves  of  new  books — his  chiefest  pleasure 
— at  Greyhope.  They  felt  it  was  a  matter 
they  ought  to  be  able  to  decide  for  them- 
selves, but  still  it  was  the  last  evening  of 
Lali's  stay  in  town,  and  they  did  not  care 
to  take  any  risk.  vStrange  to  say,  they 
had  come  to  take  pride  in  their  son's  wife ; 
for  even  General  and  Mrs.  Armour,  high- 
minded  and  of  serene  social  status  as  they 
were,  seemed  not  quite  insensible  to  the 
pleasure  of  being  an  axle  on  which  a  sys- 
tem of  social  notoriety  revolved. 

At  the  opportune  moment  Captain  Vidall 
was  announced,  and,  because  he  and  Ma- 
rion were   soon   to   carry   but   one  name 


;l|l 


II 


'H 


4 


150 


Zhc  Q^ranelatlon  of  a  Savage. 


ftii 


fii  ! 


between  them,  he  was  called  into  family 
consultation.  It  is  somew^hat  singular 
that  in  this  case  the  women  were  quite 
wrong  and  the  men  were  quite  right.  For 
General  Armour  and  Captain  Vidall  were 
for  silence  until  Frank  came,  if  he  came 
that  day,  or  for  telling  her  the  following 
morning,  when  the  function  was  over. 
And  the  men  prevailed. 

Marion  was  much  excited  all- day ;  she 
had  given  orders  that  Frank's  room  should 
be  made  ready,  but  for  whom,  she  gave  no 
information.  While  Lali  was  dressing  for 
the  evening,  something  excited  and  ner- 
vous she  entered  her  room.  They  were 
now  the  best  of  friends  The  years  had 
seen  many  shifi.ing  scenes  in  their  com- 
panionship; they  had  been  as  often  at  war 
as  at  peace;  but  they  had  .'espected  each 
other,  each  after  her  own  fashion;  and 
now  they  had  a  real  and  mutual  regard. 
Lali's  w^as  a  slim,  lithe  figure,  wearing  its 
fashionable  robes  with  an  air  of  possession, 
and  the  face  above  it,  if  not  entirely  beauti- 
ful, had  a  strange  warm  fascination.  The 
girl  had  not  been  a  chieftainess  for  noth- 
ing.    A  look  of  quiet  command  was  there, 


4 


Co  i£vct>8  /Iftan  Ibfa  ibour. 


157 


family 
ngular 

quite 
,  For 
1  were 

came 
owing 

over. 

7;  she 
;hould 
ive  no 
ng  for 
i  ner- 

were 
:s  had 

com- 
it  war 
[  each 
;  and 
igard. 
ng  its 
ssion, 
satiti- 

The 
noth- 
;here. 


but  also  a  far-away  expression  which  gave 
a  faint  look  of  sadness  even  when  a  smile 
was  at  the  lips.  The  smile  itself  did  not 
come  quickly;  it  grew;  but  above  it  all 
was  hair  of  perfect  brown,— most  rare,— 
setting  off  her  face  as  a  plume  does  a  hel- 
met. She  showed  no  surprise  when  Marion 
entered.  She  welcomed  her  with  a  smile 
and  outstretched  hand,  but  said  nothin<>-. 

Lan,"said  Marion,  somewhat  abruptly, 
—she  scarcely  knew  why  she  said  it,— 
"are  you  happy?" 

It  was  strange  how  the  Indian  girl 
had  taken  on  those  little  manners  of  so- 
ciety which  convey  so  much  by  inflection. 
She  lifted  her  eyebrows  at  Marion,  and 
said  presently,  in  a  soft,  deliberate  voice, 
"Come,  Marion,  we  will  go  and  see  little 
Richard;  then  I  shall  be  happy." 

She  linked  her  arm  through  Marion's. 
Marion  drummed  her  fingers  lightly  on 
the  beautiful  arm,  and  then  fell  to  won- 
dering what  slie  should  say  next.  They 
passed  into  the  room  where  the  child  lay 
sleeping;  they  went  to  his  little  bed,  and 
Lali  stretched  out  her  hand  gently,  touch- 
ing the  curls  of  the  child.  Running  a 
II 


I  ly 


158        ^be  Ura;]0lation  of  a  Savage. 


f                 If 

in  J 

finger  through  one  delicately,  she  said, 
with  a  still  softer  tone  than  before,  "  Why 
should  not  one  be  happy?" 

Marion  looked  up  slowly  into  her  eyes, 
let  a  hand  fall  on  her  shoulder  gently,  and 
replied,  '*  Lali,  do  you  never  wish  Frank 
to  come?" 

Lali's  fingers  came  from  the  child,  the 
colour  mounted  slowly  to  her  forehead,  and 
she  drew  the  girl  away  again  into  the 
other  room.  Then  she  turned  and  faced 
Marion,  a  deep  fire  in  her  eyes,  and  said, 
in  a  whisper  almost  hoarse  in  its  intensity, 
"Yes;  I  wish  he  would  come  to-night." 

She  looked  harder  yet  at  Marion;  then, 
with  a  flash  of  pride  and  her  hands  clasp- 
ing before  her,  she  drew  herself  up,  and 
added,  "Am  I  not  worthy  to  be  his  wife 
now?     Am  I  not  beautiful — for  a  savage?" 

There  w^as  no  common  vanity  in  the 
action.  It  had  a  noble  kind  of  wistfulness, 
and  a  serenity  that  entirely  redeemed  it. 
Marion  dated  her  own  happiness  from  the 
time  when  Lali  met  her  accident,  for  the 
evening  of  that  disastrous  day  she  issued 
to  Captain  Hume  Vidall  a  commission 
which  he  could  never,   wished  never  to 


t. 


XLo  Bverg  /Hban  1b(6  Ibour. 


159 


said, 


resign.  Since  then  she  had  been  at  her 
best, — we  are  all  more  or  less  selfish 
creatures, — and  had  grown  gentler,  curb- 
ing the  delicate  imperiousness  of  her  na- 
ture, and  frankly,  and  without  the  least 
pique,  taken  a  secondary  position  of  in- 
terest in  the  household,  occasioned  by 
Lali's  popularity.  She  looked  Lali  up  and 
down  with  a  glance  in  which  many  feel- 
ings met,  and  then,  catching  her  hands 
warmly,  she  lifted  them,  put  them  on  her 
ow^n  shoulders,  and  said,  "  My  dear  beauti- 
ful savage,  5^ou  are  fit  and  worthy  to  be 
Queen  of  England;  and  Frank,  when  he 

comes " 

"Hush I"  said  the  other,  dreamily,  ^nd 
put  a  finger  on  Marion's  lips.  "I  kno.v 
w^hat  you  are  going  to  say,  but  I  do  not 
wish  to  hear  it.     He  did  not  love  me  then. 

He  used  me "     She  shuddered,  put  her 

hands  to  her  eyes  with  a  pained,  trembling 
motion,  then  threw  her  head  back  with 
a  quick  sigh,  *'  But  I  will  not  speak  of 
it.     Come,  we  are  for  the  dance,  Marion. 

It  is  the  last,  to-night.     To-morrow " 

Slie  paused,  looking  straight  before  her, 
lost  in  thought. 


"1j 


160        Zbc  translation  of  a  Savage. 


1 1 


i  J 


pi 


i:i 


I 


I 


i 
I 

■'I 


"Yes,  to-morrow,  Lali?" 

"I  do  not  know  about  to-morrow,"  was 
the  reply.     "  Strange  things  come  to  me." 

Marion  longed  to  tell  her  then  and  there 
the  great  news,  but  she  was  afraid  to  do 
so,  and  was,  moreover,  withheld  by  the 
remembrance  that  it  had  been  agreed  she 
should  not  be  told.     She  said  nothing. 

At  eleven  o'clock  the  rooms  were  filled. 
For  the  fag  end  of  the  season,  people 
seemed  unusually  brilliant.  The  evening 
itself  was  not  so  hot  as  common,  and  there 
was  an  extra  array  of  distinguished  guests. 
Marion  was  nervous  all  the  evening, 
though  she  showed  little  of  it,  being  most 
prettily  employed  in  making  people 
pleased  with  themselves.  Mrs.  Armour 
also  was  not  free  from  apprehension.  In 
reply  to  inquiries  concerning  her  son  she 
said,  as  she  had  often  said  during  the  sea- 
son, that  he  might  be  back  at  any  time 
now.  Lali  had  answered  always  in  the 
same  fashion,  and  had  shown  no  sign  that 
his  continued  absence  was  singular.  As 
the  evening  wore  on,  the  probability  of 
Frank's  appearance  seemed  less;  and  the 
Armours  began  to  breathe  more  freely. 


Zo  Everts  ^an  Ibis  1bour. 


161 


Frank  had,  however,  arrived.  He  had 
driven  straight  from  Euston  to  Cavendish 
Square,  but,  seeing  the  house  lighted  up, 
and  guests  arriving,  he  had  a  sudden  feel- 
ing of  uncertainty.  He  ordered  the  cab- 
man to  take  him  to  his  club.  There  he 
put  himself  in  evening-dress,  and  drove 
back  again  ^o  the  house.  He  entered 
quietly.  At  the  moment  the  hall  was 
almost  deserted :  people  were  mostly  in  the 
ball-:^oom  and  supper-room.  He  paused  a 
moment,  biting  his  moustache  as  if  in  per- 
plexity. A  strange  timidity  came  on  him. 
All  his  old  dash  and  self-possession  seemed 
to  have  forsaken  him.  Presently,  seeing 
a  number  of  people  entering  the  hall,  he 
made  for  the  staircase,  and  went  hastily 
up.  Mechanically  he  went  to  his  own 
room,  and  found  it  lighted.  Flowers  were 
set  about,  and  everything  was  made  ready 
as  for  a  guest.  He  sat  down,  not  thinking, 
but  dazed.  Glancing  up,  he  saw  his  face 
in  a  mirror.  It  was  bronzed,  but  it  looked 
rather  old  and  careworn.  He  shrugged  a 
shoulder  at  that.  Then,  in  the  mirror  he 
saw  also  something  else.  It  startled  him 
so  that  he  sat  perfectly  still  for  a  moment 


M 


'ii  II 


ss  li 


(i 


I 


■     S 


162        ^be  G:ran6lation  of  a  Savaae. 


looking  at  it.  It  was  someone  laughing 
at  him  over  his  shoulder;  a  child!  He 
got  to  his  feet  and  turned  round.  On  the 
table  was  a  very  large  photograph  of  a 
smiling  child — with  /i/s  eyes,  A/s  face.  He 
caught  the  chair-arm,  and  stood  looking 
at  it  a  little  wildly.  Then  he  laughed  a 
strange  laugh,  and  the  tears  leaped  to  his 
eyes.  He  caught  the  picture  in  his  hands, 
and  kissed  it, — very  foolishly,  men  not 
fathers  might  think, — and  read  the  name 
beneath:  Richard  Joseph  Armour;  and 
again,  beneath  that,  the  date  of  birth.  He 
then  put  it  back  on  the  table  and  sat  look- 
ing at  it;  looking,  and  forgetting,  and 
remembering. 

Presently  the  door  opened,  and  some- 
one entered.  It  was  Marion.  She  had 
seen  him  pass  through  the  hall ;  she  had 
then  gone  and  told  her  father  and  mother, 
to  prepare  them,  and  had  followed  him 
up-stairs.  He  did  not  hear  her.  She 
stepped  softly  forward.  "Frank,"  she 
said,  "Frank," — and  laid  a  hand  on  his 
shoulder.  He  started  up  and  turned  his 
face  on  her.  Then  he  caught  her  hands 
and  kissed  her.     "Marion!"  he  said,  and 


he  could  say  no  more.     But  presently  he 
pointed  towards  the  photograph. 

She  nodded  her  head.  "  Yes,  it  is  your 
child,  Frank.  Though,  of  course,  you 
don't  deserve  it.  .  .  .  Frank,  dear,"  she 
added,  "  I  am  glad— we  shall  all  be  glad- 
to  have  you  back ;  but  you  are  a  wicked 
man."     She  felt  she  must  say  that. 

Now  he  only  nodded,  and  still  looked  at 
the  portrait.  **  Where  is— my  wife?"  he 
added,  presently. 

"  She  is  in  the  ball-room. "  Marion  was 
wondering  what  was  best  to  do. 

He  caught  his  thumb-nail  in  his  teeth. 
He  winced  in  spite  of  himself.  "I  will 
go  to  her,"  he  said,  "  and  then,  the  baby." 
"I  am  glad,"  she  replied,  "that  you 
have  that  much  sense  of  jij^tice  left,  Frank : 
the  wife  first,  the  baby  afterwards.  But 
do  you  think  you  deserve  either?" 

He  became  moody,  and  made  an  impa- 
tient gesture.  "Lady  Agnes  Martling  is 
here,  and  also  Lady  Haldwell,"  she  per- 
sisted, cruelly.  She  did  not  mind,  because 
she  knew  he  would  have  enough  to  com- 
pensate him  afterwards. 

"Marion,"  he  said,  "say  it  all,  and  let 


!  r 


^1    ^ 

,    ■  1     "' 

1  ■ 

1 

1  !'f 

1  . 

164        C^be  translation  of  a  Savage. 


nic  have  it  over.     Say  what  you  like,  and 
I'll    not    whimper.     I'll    face   it.     But   I 


want  to  see  my  child." 

vShc  was  vSorry  for  him.  She  had  reiliy 
wanted  ^o  see  how  much  he  was  capable 
of 
Fr 


a  the    matter. 


(( 


Wait    here, 


ai^K 


he   said. 


a 


That   will    be  best 


and  i  vvill  ''  'ng  your  wife  to  you." 

He  said  nothing,  but  assented  with  a 
motion  of  the  hand,  and  she  left  him 
where  he  was.  He  braced  himself  for  the 
interview.  Assuredly  a  man  loses  some- 
thing of  natural  courage  and  self-confi- 
dence when  he  has  done  a  thing  of  which 
he  should  be,  and  is,  ashamed. 

It  seemed  a  1  ng  time  (it  was  in  reality 
but  a  couple  of  minutes)  before  the  door 
opened  again,  and  Marion  said,  "  Frank, 
your  wife!"  and  then  retreated. 

The  door  closed,  leaving  a  stately  figure 
standing  just  inside  it.  The  figure  did 
not  move  forward,  but  stood  there,  full  of 
life  and  fine  excitement,  but  very  still  also. 

Frank  Armour  was  confounded.  He 
came  forward  vslowly,  looking  hard.  Was 
this  distinguished,  handsome,  reproachful 
woman   his   wife, — Lali,  the   Indian  girl 


^0  Brere  /IRan  Ibis  Ibour. 


165 


whom  he  had  married  in  a  fit  of  pique 
and  brand;  ?  He  could  hardly  believe  his 
eyes;  and  yet  her  eyes  looked  out  at  him 
with  something  that  he  remembered  too, 
together  with  something  which  he  did  not 
rememl)er,  making  him  uneasy.  Clearly, 
his  great  mistake  had  turned  from  ashes 
into  fruit.  "  Lali,  my  wife!"  "^'^  said,  and 
held  out  his  hand. 

She  reached  out  hers  r.  a.  teously,  but 
her  fingers  gave  him  no  resp    ise. 

"We  have  many  thing  to  say  to  each 
other,"  she  said,  "but  they  cannot  be  said 
now.  I  shall  be  missed  from  the  ball- 
room." 

"Missed  from  the  ball-room!"  He  al- 
most laughed  to  think  how  strange  this 
sounded  in  his  ears.  As  if  interpreting 
his  thought,  she  added,  "  You  see,  it  is 
our  last  affair  of  the  season,  and  we  are  all 
anxious  to  do  our  duty  perfectly.  Will 
you  go  down  with  me?  .  .  .  We  can  talk 
afterwards." 

Her  continued  self-possession  utterly 
confused  him.  She  had  utterly  confused 
Marion  also,  when  told  that  her  husband 
was  in  the  house.     She  had  had  presenti- 


I 


A  \ : 


u 


Ml 


■-'■  I 


'r:  f 


1;' 
■ ! 


:<'\ 


>^i 


''V 


166       ;rbc  Cranelatton  ot  a  Savage. 

mcnts,  and,  besides,  she  had  been  school- 
ing herself  for  this  hour  for  a  lon«^  time. 
She  turned  towards  the  door. 

"  But,"  he  asked,  like  a  supplicant,  "our 
child!     I  want  to  see  our  child." 

She  lifted  her  eyebrows,  then,  seeing 
the  photograph  of  the  baby  on  the  table, 
understood  how  he  knew.  *'  Come  with  me, 
then,"  she  said,  with  a  little  more  feeling. 

She  led  the  way  through  the  hall,  and 
paused  at  her  door.  "  Remember  that  we 
have  to  appear  amongst  the  guests  direct- 
ly," she  said,  as  though  to  warn  him  against 
any  demonstration.  Then  they  entered. 
She  went  over  to  the  cot  and  drew  back 
the  fleecy  curtain  from  over  the  sleeping 
boy's  head.  His  fingers  hungered  to  take 
his  child  to  his  arms.  *'  He  is  magnifi- 
cent! magnificent!"  he  said,  with  a  great 
pride.  "  Why  did  you  never  let  me  know 
of  it?" 

"  How  could  I  tell  what  you  would  do?" 
she  calmly  replied.  "  You  married  me — 
wickedly,  and  used  me  wickedly  after- 
wards; and  I  loved  the  child." 

**  You  loved  the  child!"  he  repeated  after 
her.     "  Lali,"  he  said,  *'  I  don't  deserve  it, 


'  Si. 


Co  lErcrij  IfUfUn  ijls  fjour. 


107 


our 


but  forgave  mc,  if  you  can — fur  the  child's 
sake." 

"We  had  better  go  below,"  she  calmly 
replied  ;  "  we  have  both  duties  to  do.  You 
will  of  course — appear  with  me — before 
them?" 

The  slight  irony  in  the  tone  cut  him 
horribly.  He  offered  his  arm  in  silence. 
They  passed  into  the  hall  and  to  the  stair- 
case. "It  is  necessary,"  she  said,  "to  ap- 
pear cheerful  before  one's  guests." 

She  had  him  at  an  advantage  at  every 
point.  "We  will  be  cheerful,  then,"  was 
his  reply,  spoken  with  a  grim  kind  of  hu- 
mour. "You  have  learned  it  all,  haven't 
you?"  he  added. 

They  were  just  entering  the  ball-room. 
"  Yes,  with  your  kind  help — and  absence," 
she  replied. 

The  surprise  of  the  guests  was  some- 
what diminished  by  the  fact  that  Marion, 
tell  in  q:  General  Armour  and  his  wife  first 
of  Frank's  return,  industriously  sent  the 
news  buzzing  about  the  room. 

The  two  went  straight  to  Frank's  father 
and  mother.  Their  parts  were  all  ex- 
cellently played.      Then  Frank   mingled 


i 


iiit 


i! 


I 


108        Ubc  ^Translation  of  a  Savage. 

amongst  the  guests,  being  very  heartily 
greeted,  pnd  heard  eongratulations  on  all 
sides.  Old  elub  friends  rallied  him  as  a 
deserter,  and  new  accjuaintanccs  flocked 
about  him  ;  and  presently  he  awakened  to 
the  fact  that  liis  Indian  wife  had  been  an 
interest  of  the  season,  was  not  the  least 
admired  person  present.  It  was  altogether 
too  good  luck  for  him;  but  he  had  an  im- 
comfortablc  conviction  that  he  had  a  long 
path  of  penance  to  walk  before  he  could 
hope  to  enjoy  it. 

All  at  once  he  met  Lady  Haldwell,  who, 
in  spite  of  all,  still  accepted  invitations 
to  General  Armour's  house — the  strange 
scene  between  Lali  and  herself  having 
never  been  disclosed  to  the  family.  He 
had  nothing  but  bitterness  in  his  heart  for 
her,  but  he  spoke  a  few  smooth  words, 
and  she  languidly  congratulated  him  on 
his  bronzed  appearance.  He  asked  for  a 
dance,  but  she  had  not  one  to  give  him. 
As  she  was  leaving,  she  suddenly  turned 
as  though  she  had  forgotten  something, 
and  looking  at  him,  said,  "  I  forgot  to  con- 
gratulate you  on  your  marriage.  I  hope 
it  is  not  too  late." 


do  JEvcrtJ  /Hban  fbie  Ibour. 


U)9 


He  bowed.  "  Your  congratulations  are 
so  sincere,"  he  said,  "that  they  would  be 
<)  propos  late  or  early." 

When  he  stood  with  his  wife  whilst  the 
guests  were  leaving,  and  saw  with  what 
manner  she  carried  it  all  off, — as  tliough 
she  had  been  born  in  the  good  land  of  good 
breeding, — he  was  moved  alternately  with 
wonder  and  shame, — shame  that  he  had 
intended  this  noble  creature  as  a  sacrifice 
to  his  ugly  temper  and  spite.  When  all 
the  guests  were  gone  and  the  family  stood 
alone  in  the  drawing-room,  a  silence  sud- 
denly fell  amongst  them.  Presently  Ma- 
rion said  to  her  mother  in  a  half -whisper, 
"I  wish  Richard  were  here." 

They  all  felt  the  extreme  awkwardness 
of  the  situation,  especially  when  Lali 
bade  General  Armour,  Mrs,  Armour,  and 
Marion  good-night,  and  then,  turning  to 
her  husband,  said,  "Good-night," — she  did 
not  even  speak  his  name.  "  Perhaps  you 
would  care  to  ride  to-morrow  morning.  I 
always  go  to  the  Park  at  ten,  and  this  will 
be  my  last  ride  of  the  season." 

Had  she  written  out  an  elaborate  procla- 
mation of  her  intended  attitude  towards 


I 


tr  f 


/ 


170        Ube  translation  of  a  Saraac, 

her  husband,  it  could  not  have  more  clearly 
conveyed  her  mind  than  this  little  speech, 
delivered  as  to  a  most  friendly  acquaint- 
ance. General  Armour  pulled  his  mous- 
tache fiercely,  and,  it  is  possible,  enjoyed 
the  situation,  despite  its  peril.  Mrs.  Ar- 
mour turned  to  the  mantel  and  seemed 
tremulously  engaged  in  arranging  some 
bric-a-brac.  Marion,  however,  with  a  fine 
instinct,  slid  her  arm  through  that  of  Lali, 
and  gently  said,  "  Yes,  of  course  Frank 
will  be  glad  of  a  ride  in  the  Park.  He 
used  to  ride  with  me  every  morning.  But 
let  us  go,  us  three,  and  kiss  the  baby  good- 
night,— 'good-night  till  we  meet  in  the 
morning.'"  She  linked  her  arm  now 
through  Frank's,  and  as  she  did  so  he  re- 
plied to  Lali,  ''  I  shall  be  glad  to  ride  in 
the  morning,  but " 

"But  we  can  arrange  it  at  breakfast," 
said  his  wife,  hurriedly.  At  the  same 
time  she  allowed  herself  to  be  drawn  away 
to  the  hall  with  her  husband. 

He  was  very  angry,  but  he  knew  he  had 
no  right  to  be  so.  He  choked  back  his 
wrath,  and  moved  on  amiably  enough,  and 
suddenly  the  fashion  in  which  the  tables 


\ 


i 


,11' 


J 


'."'T.  r^??r;  van  -jff>-pes^r&;^a&rj'^<-'  -B-."«s*^raF . ; 


f«( 


Zo  lEvcrs  /IRan  1F3i6  Ibcur. 


171 


had  been  turned  on  him  struck  him  with 
its  tragic  comedy,  and  he  involuntarily 
smiled.  His  sense  of  humour  saved  him 
from  words  and  acts  which  might  possibly 
have  made  the  matter  a  pure  tragedy  after 
all.     He  loosed  his  arm  from  Marion's. 

"  I  must  bid  our  father  and  mother  good- 
night. Then  I  will  join  you  both, — 'in 
the  court  of  the  king.'"  And  he  turned 
and  went  back,  and  said  to  his  father  as 
he  kissed  his  mother,  "  I  am  had  at  an  ad- 
vantage, general." 

*'And  serves  you  right,  my  boy.  You 
had  the  odds  with  you :  she  has  captured 
them  like  a  born  soldier." 

His  mother  said  to  him,  gently,  "  Frank, 
you  blamed  us,  but  remember  that  v'e 
wished  only  your  good.  Take  my  advice, 
dear,  and  try  to  love  your  wife  and  win 
her  confidence." 

"Love  her, — fry  to  love  her!"  he  said. 
"I  shall  easily  do  that.  But  the  oth- 
er  ?"    He  shook  his  head  a  little,  though 

what  he  meant  perhaps  he  did  not  know 
quite  himself,  and  then  followed  Marion 
and  Lali  up-stairs.  Marion  had  tried  t^. 
escape  from  Lali,  but  was  told  that  she 


' 


''■%'■ 


i 


m 


I 


1 

1  - 


H 


172        ^be  translation  of  a  Savage, 

must  stay ;  and  the  three  met  at  the  child's 
cot.  Marion  stooped  down  and  kissed  its 
forehead.  Frank  stooped  also  and  kissed 
its  cheek.  Then  the  wife  kissed  the  other 
cheek.     The  child  slept  peacefully  on. 

*'  You  can  always  see  the  baby  here  be- 
fore breakfast,  if  you  choose,"  said  Lali; 
and  she  held  out  her  hand  again  in  good- 
night. At  this  point  Mario]i  stole  away, 
in  spite  of  Lali's  quick  little  cry  of  ''  Wait, 
Marion!"  and  the  two  were  left  alone 
again. 

"  I  am  very  tired,"  she  said.  "  I  would 
rather  not  talk  to-n  ght. "  The  dismissal 
was  evident.  He  took  her  hand,  held  it 
an  instant,  and  presently  said,  "  I  will  not 
detain  you,  but  I  would  ask  you,  Lali,  to 
remember  that  you  are  my  wife.  Nothing 
can  alter  that." 

*'  Still  we  are  only  strangers,  as  you 
know,"  she  quietly  rejoined. 

"  You  forget  the  days  we  were  together, 
— after  we  were  married,"  he  cautiously 
urged. 

"  I  am  not  the  same  girl :  ,  .  .  you  killed 
her,  .  .  ,  We  have  to  start  again.  ...  I 
know  all." 


1 


*-!^; 


Zo  jEvcrs  ^an  Ibis  1bour. 


173 


you 


''  You  know  that  in  my  wretched  ang-er 
and  madness  I " 

"Oh,  please  do  not  speak  of  it,"  she 
said,  "it  is  so  bad  even  in  thoui^ht. " 

"  But  will  you  never  forgive  me,  and 
care  for  me? — we  have  to  live  our  lives 
together. " 

"Pray  let  us  not  speak  of  it  now,"  she 
said,  in  a  weary  voice ;  then,  breathlessly, 
"  It  is  of  much  more  consequence  that  you 
shoidd  love  me — and  the  child." 

He  drew  himself  up  with  a  choking 
sigh,  and  spread  out  his  arms  to  her. 
"Oh,  my  wife!"  he  said. 

"No,  no,"  she  cried,  "this  is  unreason- 
able; we  know  so  little  of  each  other.  .  .  . 
Good-night,  again." 

He  turned  at  the  door,  came  back,  and, 
stooping,  kissed  the  child  on  the  lips. 
Then  he  said,  "  You  are  right.  I  deserve 
to  suffer.  .   .   .  Good-night." 

But  when  he  was  gone  she  dropped  on 
her  knees,  and  kissed  the  child  many  times 
on  the  lips  also. 


12 


f/ 


I ' 


:^«.. 


CHAPTER   IX. 


THE    FAITH    OF    COMRADES. 


&       i 


'*.  ^ii: 


■'  h 


HEN  Francis  Armour  left  his 
wife's  room  he  did  not  go 
to  his  own  room,  but  quietly- 
descended  the  stairs,  went  to 
the  library,  and  sat  down.  The  loneliest 
thing  in  the  world  is  to  be  tete-a-tcte  with 
one's  conscience.  A  man  may  have  a  bad 
hour  with  an  enemy,  a  sad  hour  with  a 
friend,  a  peaceful  hour  with  himself,  but 
when  the  little  dwarf,  conscience,  perches 
upon  every  hillock  of  remembrance  and 
makes  slow  signs — those  strange  symbols 
of  the  lanofuatre  of  the  soul — to  him,  no 
slave  upon  the  treadmill  suffers  more. 

The  butler  came  in  to  see  if  anything 
w^as  required,  but  Armour  only  greeted 
him  silently  and  waved  him  away.  His 
brain  was  painfully  alert,  his  memory 
singularly  awake.  It  seemed  that  the  in- 
cident of  this  hour  had  so  opened  up  every 

174 


f 


^be  Jfaitb  ot  ComraDce. 


IT.j 


go 


channel  of  his  intelligence  that  all  his  life 
ran  past  him  in  fantastic  panorama,  as  by 
that  illumination  whi'^i  comes  to  the 
drowning  man.  He  seemed  under  some 
strange  spell.  Once  or  twice  he  rose, 
rubbed  his  eyes,  and  looked  round  the 
room, — the  room  where  as  a  boy  he  had 
spent  idle  hours,  where  as  a  student  he 
had  been  in  the  hands  of  his  tutor,  and  as 
a  young  man  had  found  recreations  such 
as  belong  Lo  ambitious  and  ardent  youth. 
Every  corner  was  familiar.  Nothing  was 
changed.  The  books  upon  the  shelves 
were  as  they  were  placed  twenty  years 
ago.  And  yet  he  did  not  seem  a  part  of 
it.  It  did  not  seem  natural  to  him.  He 
was  in  an  atmosphere  of  strangeness, — 
that  atmosphere  which  surrounds  a  man, 
as  by  a  cloud,  when  some  crisis  comes 
upon  him  and  his  life  seen  to  stand  still, 
whirling  upon  its  narrow  )ase,  while  the 
world  appears  at  an  intenniiiable  distance, 
even  as  to  a  deaf  man  wb  sees  yet  cannot 
hear. 

There  came  home  to  him  at  that  mo- 
ment with  a  force  indescribable  the  shame- 
lessness  of  the  act  he  committed  four  vears 


I 


rt 


\i 


176        Zhc  translation  of  a  Savage. 


ago. 


V 


Si 


He  had  thoin'-ht  to  come  back  to 
miserable  humiliation.  For  four  years  he 
had  refused  to  do  his  dut)^  as  a  man  towards 
an  innocent  woman, — a  woman,  though  in 
part  a  savage, — now  transformed  into  a 
gentle,  noble  creature  of  delight  and  good- 
ness. How  had  he  deserved  it?  He  had 
sown  the  storm,  it  was  but  just  that  he 
should  reap  the  whirlwind;  he  had  scat- 
tered thistles,  could  he  expect  to  gather 
grapes?  He  knew  that  the  sympathy  of 
all  his  father's  house  was  not  with  him, 
but  with  the  woman  he  had  wronged.  He 
was  glad  it  was  so.  Looking  back  now, 
it  sc-emed  so  poor  and  paltry  a  thing  that 
he,  a  man,  should  stoop  to  revenge  him- 
self upon  those  who  had  given  him  birth, 
as  a  kind  of  insult  to  the  woman  who  had 
lightly  set  him  aside,  and  should  use  for 
that  purpose  a  helpless  confiding  girl.  To 
revenge  one's  self  for  wrong  to  one's 
self  is  but  a  common  passion,  which  has 
little  dignity;  to  avenge  someone  whom 
one  has  loved,  man  or  woman, — and,  be- 
fore all,  woman, — has  some  touch  of  no- 
bility, is  redeemed  by  loyalty.  For  his 
act   there   was   not  one  word  of   defence 


^be  jpaitb  ot  Comrades, 


177 


() 
c 
s 
II 
a 

d 
e 

t- 

)f 

at 

Ll- 

id 
's 

IS 
Tl 

3- 

is 
:e 


to  be  made,  and  he  was  not  prepared  to 
make  it. 

The  cic^ars  and  liquors  were  beside  him, 
but  he  did  not  touch  them.  He  seemed 
very  far  away  from  the  ordinary  details  of 
his  life:  he  knew  he  had  before  him  hard 
travel,  and  he  was  not  confident  of  the  end. 
He  could  not  tell  how  long  he  sat  there. 
After  a  time  the  ticking  of  the  clock  seemed 
painfully  loud  to  him.  Now  and  again  he 
heard  a  cab  rattling  through  the  Square, 
and  the  foolish  song  of  some  drunken 
loiterer  in  the  night  caused  him  to  start 
painfully.  Everythi:;;^  jarred  on  him. 
Once  he  got  up,  went  to  the  window,  and 
looked  out.  The  moon  was  shining  full 
on  the  Square.  He  wondered  if  it  would 
be  well  for  him  to  go  out  and  find  some 
quiet  to  his  nerves  in  walking.  He  did 
so.  Out  in  the  Square  he  looked  up  to 
his  wife's  window.  It  was  lighted.  Long 
time  he  walked  up  and  down,  his  eyes  on 
the  window.  It  held  him  like  a  charm. 
Once  he  leaned  against  the  iron  railings 
of  the  garden  and  looked  up,  not  moving 
for  a  time.  Presently  he  saw  the  curtain 
of  the  window  raised,  and  against  the  dim 


w 


ITS        iTbe  translation  ot  a  Sava^jc. 


Ir 


■     M. 


litil'ht  of  the  room  was  outlined  the  figure 
of  his  wife.  He  knew  it.  She  stood  for  a 
moment  looking  out  into  the  night.  She 
could  not  see  him,  nor  could  he  see  her 
features  at  all  plainly,  but  he  knew  that 
she,  like  him,  was  alone  with  the  catas- 
trophe which  his  wickedness  had  sent 
upon  her.  Soon  the  curtain  was  drawn 
down  again,  and  then  he  went  once  more 
to  the  house  and  took  his  old  seat  beside 
the  table.  He  fell  to  brooding,  and  at  last, 
exhausted,  dropped  to  a  troubled  sleep. 

He  woke  with  a  start.  Someone  was  in 
the  room.  He  heard  a  step  behind  him. 
He  came  to  his  feet  quickly,  a  wild  light  in 
his  eyes.     He  faced  his  brother  Richard. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  Marion  had  tele- 
graphed to  Richard  that  Frank  was  coming. 
He  had  been  away  visiting  some  poor  and 
sick  people,  and  when  he  came  back  to 
Greyhope  it  was  too  late  to  catch  the  train. 
But  the  horses  were  harnessed  straight- 
way, and  he  was  driven  into  town, — a 
three  hours'  drive.  He  had  left  the  horses 
at  the  stables,  and,  having  a  latch-key, 
had  come  in  quietly.  He  had  seen  the 
light  in  the  study,  and  guessed  who  was 


fe 


XLbe  ipaftb  of  CcmraDee. 


179 


there.  lie  entered,  and  saw  his  brotlicr 
asleep.  He  watched  him  fur  a  moment 
and  studied  him.  Then  he  moved  away 
to  take  off  his  hat,  and,  as  he  did  so,  stum- 
bled slightly.  Then  it  was  Frank  waked, 
and  for  the  first  time  in  five  years  they 
looked  each  other  in  the  ryes.  Tliey  both 
stood  immovable  for  a  moment,  and  then 
Richard  caught  Frank's  hand  in  both  of 
his  and  said,  "God  bless  you,  my  boy!  I 
am  glad  you  are  back." 

"Dick!  Dick!"  was  the  reply,  and 
Frank's  other  hand  clutched  Richard's 
shoulder  in  his  strong  emotion.  They 
stood  silent  for  a  moment  longer,  and  then 
Richard  recovered  himself.  He  waved 
his  hand  to  the  chairs.  The  strain  of  the 
situation  was  a  little  painful  for  them  both. 
Men  are  shy  with  each  other  where  their 
emotions  are  in  play. 

"  "Why,  my  boy,"  he  said,  waving  a  hand 
to  the  wine  and  liquors,  "  full  bottles  and 
unopened  boxes?  Tut,  tut!  here'sapretty 
how-d'ye-do.  Is  this  the  way  you  toast 
the  home  quarters?*  You're  a  fine  soldier 
for  an  old  mess!" 

So  saying,  he  poured  out  some  whiskey, 


',]  [ 


180        ^be  c:ratt0iat(on  of  a  Sava(ic. 


then  opened  the  box  of  cig^ars  and  pushed 
them  towards  his  brotlier.  He  did  not 
care  particularly  to  drink  or  smoke  him- 
self, but  a  man — an  Englishman — is  a 
strange  creature.  He  is  most  natural  and 
at  ease  when  he  is  engaged  in  eating  and 
drinking.  He  relieves  every  trying  situa- 
tion by  some  frivolous  and  selfish  occupa- 
tion, as  of  dismembering  a  partridge  or 
mixing  a  punch. 

''Well,  Frank,"  said  his  brother,  "now 
what  have  you  to  say  for  yourself?  Why 
didn't  you  come  long  ago?  You  have 
played  the  adventurer  for  five  years,  and 
what  have  you  to  show  for  it?  Have  you 
a  fortime?"  Frank  shook  his  head,  and 
twisted  a  shoulder.  ''  What  have  you  done 
that  is  worth  the  doing,  then?" 

"  Nothing  that  I  intended  to  do,  Dick," 
was  the  grave  reply. 

"  Yes,  I  imagined  that.  You  have  seen 
t/icm,  have  you,  Frank?"  he  added,  in  a 
softer  voice. 

Frank  blew  a  great  cloud  of  smoke  about 
his  face,  and  through  it  he  said,  "  Yes, 
Dick,  I  have  seen  a  damned  sight  more 
than  I  deserve  to  see. " 


r 


Zbc  jfaitb  ot  ComraOce. 


181 


It 


' 


) 


"Oh,  of  course;  I  know  that,  my  boy; 
but,  so  far  as  I  can  sec,  in  another  direc- 
tion you  are  getting  quite  what  you  de- 
serve: your  wife  and  child  are  up-stairs; 
you  arc  here." 

He  paused,  was  silent  for  a  moment, 
then  leaned  over,  caught  his  brother's 
arm,  and  said,  in  a  low,  strenuous  voice, 
"Frank  Armour,  you  laid  a  hateful  little 
plot  for  us.  It  wasn't  manly,  but  we  for- 
gave it  and  did  the  best  we  could.  But 
see  here,  Frank,  take  my  woid  for  it,  you 
have  had  a  lot  of  luck:  there  isn't  one 
woman  out  of  ten  thousand  that  would 
have  stood  the  test  as  your  wife  has  stood 
it:  injured  at  the  start,  constant  neglect, 

temptation "    he   paused.      "  ^ly  boy, 

did  you  ever  think  of  that,  of  the  tempta- 
tion to  a  woman  neglected  bv  her  husband? 
The  temptation  to  men?  Yes,  you  have 
had  a  lot  of  luck.  There  has  been  a  special 
providence  for  you,  my  boy;  but  not  for 
your  sake.  God  doesn't  love  neglectful 
husbands,  but  I  think  He  is  pretty  sorry 
for  neglected  wives." 

Frank  was  very  still.  His  head  drooped, 
the  cigar  hung  unheeded  in  his  fmgers  for 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
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182        Zbc  Q:ran6lat(on  ot  a  Savage. 

■■—■       '  -*   '      — —  -    .         ■    ■  ■■  .  .     -        —    -      "'       ■  '  —  —  ---.  -■'    ..  —  ..I  —  ■  mmt 

a  moment,  and  he  said  at  last,  "  Dick,  old 
comrade,  I've  thought  it  all  over  to-night 
since  I  came  back, — everything  that  you've 
said.  I  have  not  a  word  of  defence  to 
make,  but,  by  heaven!  I'm  going  to  win 
my  wife's  love  if  I  can,  and  when  I  do  it 
I'll  make  up  for  all  my  cursed  foolishness 
— see  if  I  don't." 

"That  sounds  well,  Frank,"  was  the 
quiet  reply.  "  I  like  to  hear  you.  talk  that 
way.  You  would  be  very  foolish  if  you 
did  not.     What  do  you  think  of  the  child?" 

"Can  you  ask  me  what  I  think?  He  is 
a  splendid  little  fellow." 

"  Take  care  of  him,  then,  take  good  care 
of  him:  you  may  never  have  another," 
was  the  grim  rejoinder. 

Frank  winced.  His  brother  rose,  took 
his  arm,  and  said,  "  Let  us  go  to  our  rooms, 
Frank.  There  will  be  time  enough  to  talk 
later,  and  I  am  not  so  young  as  I  once  was. " 

Truth  to  say,  Richard  Armour  was  not 
so  young  as  he  seemed  a  few  months  be- 
fore." His  shoulders  were  a  little  stooped, 
he  was  grayer  about  the  temples.  The 
little  bit  of  cynicism  which  had  appeared 
in  that  remark  about  the  care  of  the  child 


I 


:■ 


ZTbe  iPaitb  of  ComraDea. 


183 


M 


showed  also  in  the  lines  of  his  mouth;  yet 
his  eyes  had  the  same  old,  true,  honest 
look.  But  a  man  cannot  be  hit  in  mortal 
places  once  or  twice  in  his  life  without  its 
being-  etched  on  his  face  or  dropped  like  a 
pinch  of  aloe  from  his  tongue. 

Still  they  sat  and  talked  much  longer, 
Frank  showing  better  than  when  his 
brother  came,  Richard  gone  gray  and 
tired.  At  last  Richard  rose  and  motioned 
towards  the  window.  "See,  Frank,"  he 
said,  "  it  is  morning."  Then  he  went  and 
lifted  the  blind.  The  gray,  unpurged  air 
oozed  on  the  glass.  The  light  was  break- 
ing- over  the  tops  of  the  houses.  A  cross- 
ing-sweeper early  to  his  task,  or  holding 
the  key  of  the  street,  went  pottering  by, 
and  a  policeman  glanced  up  at  them  as  he 
passed.  Richard  drew  down  the  curtain 
again. 

"Dick,"  said  Frank,  suddenly,  "you 
look  old.  I  wonder  if  I  have  changed  as 
much." 

Six  months  before  Frank  Armour  would 
have  said  that  his  brother  looked  young! 

"Oh,  you  look  young  enough,  Frank," 
was  the  reply.     "  But  I  am  a  good  deal 


) 
!  I' 


liH 


:  I 


.  I 


184        Zbc  Cranelation  of  a  Savage. 

older    than    I   was    five    years   ago.   .   .   . 
Come,  let  us  go  to  bed." 

Many  weeks  afterwards  an  anxious 
family  stood  about  the  cot  of  a  sick  child. 

The  family  doctor  had  just  left  the  room. 
Marion,  turning  to  the  father  and  mother, 
said,  "  Greyhope  will  be  like  itself  again 
now.  I  will  go  and  tell  Richard  that  the 
danger  is  over." 

As  she  turned  to  do  so,  Richard  opened 
the  door  and  came  in.  "  I  have  seen  the 
doctor,"  he  began,  in  his  cheerful  tones, 
*'  and  the  little  chap  is  going  to  pull  along 
now  like  a  house  afire."  Tapping  his 
brother  affectionately  on  the  shoulder,  he 
was  about  to  continue,  but  he  saw  what 
stopped  him.  He  saw  the  beginning  of  the 
end  of  Frank  Armour's  tragic  comedy.  He 
and  Marion  left  the  room  as  quickly  as  was 
possible  to  him,  for,  as  he  said,  humor- 
ously, "he  was  slow  at  a  quick  march," 
and  a  moment  after  the  wife  heard  without 
demur  her  husband's  tale  of  love  for  her. 

Yet,  as  if  to  remind  him  of  the  wrong 
he  had  done,  Heaven  never  granted  Frank 
Armour  another  child. 

THE    END. 


1 


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D.    APPLETON   AND   COMPANY'S    PUBLICATIONS. 


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BY   S.  R.  CROCKETT. 
Uniform  edition.     Each,  lamo,  cloth,  $1.50. 
ADS'   LOVE,     Illustrated. 


In  this  fresh  and  charming  story,  which  in  ?;ome  respects  recalls 
"The  Lilac  Siinbonnet,"  Mr.  Crockett  returns  to  Galloway  and  pictures 
the  humor  and  pathos  of  the  life  which  he  knows  so  well. 

r^LEG  KELLY,  ARAB  OF  THE  CITY.    His  Prog- 
^^       ress  and  Adventures.     Illustrated. 

"  A  masterpiece  which  Mark  Twain  himself  has  never  rivaled.  ...  If 
there  ever  was  an  ideal  character  in  fiction  it  is  this  heroic  rai^amufirm." — 
London  Daily  Chronicle. 

"  In  no  one  of  his  books  does  Mr.  Crockett  give  us  a  brighter  or  more 
graphic  picture  of  contemporary  hcotoh  life  than  in  'Cleg  Kelly.'  .  .  . 
It  is  one  of  the  great  books." — Boston  Daily  Advertiser. 

"  One  of  the  most  successful  of  Mr.  Crockett's  works." — Brooklyn  Eagle. 


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OG-MYRTLE  AND  PEAT.     Third  edition. 


"  Here  are  idyls,  epics,  dramas  of  human  life,  written  in  words  that 
thrill  and  burn.  .  .  .  Each  is  a  poem  that  has  an  immortal  flavor.  They  are 
fragments  ot  the  author's  early  dreams,  too  bright,  too  gorgeous,  too  full  of 
the  blood  of  rubies  and  the  life  of  diamonds  to  be  caught  and  held  palpitating 
in  expression's  grasp." — Boston  Courier. 

"  Hardly  a  sketch  among  them  all  that  will  not  afford  pleasure  to  the 
reader  for  its  genial  humor,  artistic  local  coloring,  and  admirable  portrayal 
of  character." — Boston  Home  yonrnal. 

"  One  dips  into  the  book  anywhere  and  reads  on  and  on,  fascinated  by 
the  writer's  charm  oi  mzxiner."— Minneapolis  Tribune. 

(T'JLE   LILAC  SUN  BONNET.     Eighth  edition. 

"A  love  story  pure  and  simple,  one  of  the  old-fashioned,  whole- 
some, sunshiny  kind,  with  a  pure-minded,  sound-hearted  hero,  and  a  heroine 
who  is  merely  a  good  and  beautiful  woman  ;  and  if  any  other  love  story  half 
so  sweet  has  been  written  this  year,  it  has  escaped  our  notice." — New  York 
Times. 

"  The  general  conception  of  the  story,  the  motive  of  which  is  the  growth 
of  love  between  the  young  chief  and  heroine,  is  delineated  with  a  sweetness 
and  a  freshness,  a  naturalness  and  a  certamty,  which  places  '  The  Lilac 
Siinbonnet'  among  the  best  stories  of  the  time." — New  York  Mail  and 
Express. 

•'  In  its  own  line  this  little  love  story  can  hardly  be  excelled.  It  is  a 
pastoral,  an  i<iyl— the  story  of  love  and  courtship  and  marriage  of  a  fine 
young  man  and  a  lovely  girl— no  more.  But  it  is  told  in  so  thoroughly  de- 
lightful a  manner,  with  such  playful  humor,  such  deUcate  fancy,  such  true 
and  sympathetic  feeling,  that  nothing  more  could  be  desired." — Boston 
Traveller, 


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This  brilliant  historical  romance  pictures  Napoleon's  threatened 
invasion  of  Enj^^land  when  his  fc^rces  were  encamped  at  Boulogne. 
The  story  abounds  in  dramatic  incidents,  and  the  adventures  of  the 
hero  will  be  followed  with  intense  interest  by  a  multitude  of 
readers. 

TDODNEY  STONE,     Illustrated. 

"  A  remarkable  book,  worthy  of  the  pen  that  gave  us  '  The  White 
Company,'  '  Micah  Clarke/  and  other  notable  romances." — London  Daily 
News. 

"  A  notable  and  very  brilliant  work  of  genius." — London  Speaker. 

" '  Rodney  Stone'  is,  in  our  judgment,  distinctly  the  best  of  Dr.  Conan 
Doyle's  novels.  .  .  .  There  are  few  dejcriptions  in  fiction  that  can  vie  with 
that  race  upon  the  Brighton  road." — London  Titnes. 

^HE  EXPLOITS  OF  BRIGADIER  GERARD.    A 
■^        Romance  of  the  Life  of  a  Typical  Napoleonic  Soldier.    Illus- 
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"The  brigadier  is  brave,  resolute,  amorous,  loyal,  chivalrous;  never 
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need.  .  .  .  Gallantry,  humor,  martial  gayety,  moving  uicident,  make  up  a 
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"  May  be  set  down  without  reservation  as  the  most  thoroughly  enjoyable 
book  that  Dr.  Doyle  has  ever  published." — Boston  Beacon. 

n^IIE  STARK  MUNRO  LETTERS.     Being  a  Series 
■^       of  Twelve  Letters  written  by  Stark  Munro,  M.  B.,  to  his 
friend  and  former  fellow-student,  Herbert  Swanborough,  of 
Lowell,  Massachusetts,  during  the  years  1881-1884.     Illus- 
trated. 

"Culiingworth,  ...  a  much  more  interesting  creation  than  Sherlock 
Holmes,  and  I  pray  Dr.  Doyle  to  give  us  more  of  him." — Richard  le 
Gallienne,  in  the  London  Star, 


Being  Facts  and  Fancies 


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'*  Too  much  can  not  be  said  in  praise  of  these  strong  productions,  that, 
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anticipation  to  the  end.  .  .  .  No  scries  of  short  stories  in  modern  literature 
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Y^/Z/i    A'EDS   OF    rilE   MIDI.     An  Episode   of  the 
-*        French   Revolution.     By  FitLix  Gras.     Translated  from 
the  Provencal  by  Mrs.  Catharine  A.  Janvikr.     With  an 
Introduction  by  Thomas   A.   Janvier.      With   Frontis- 
piece.    1 2 mo.    Cloth,  $1.50. 

"It  is  doubtful  whether  in  the  English  language  we  have  had  a  more 
powerful,  impressive,  artistic  picture  of  the  French  Revolution,  from  the 
revolutionist's  point  of  view,  than  that  presented  in  Fdlix  Gras's  '  The 
Reds  of  the  Midi.'  .  .  .  Adventures  follow  one  another  rapidly  ;  splendid, 
brilliant  pictures  are  frequent,  and  the  thread  of  a  tender,  beautiful  love 
story  winds  in  and  out  of  its  pages." — New  York  Mail  and  Express. 

"'The  Reds  of  the  Midi'  is  a  red  rose  from  Provence,  a  breath  of 
pure  air  in  the  stifling  atmosphere  of  present-day  romance — a  stirring  nar- 
rative of  one  of  the  most  picturesque  events  of  the  Revolution.  It  is  told 
with  all  the  strength  of  simplicity  and  directness;  it  is  warm  aid  pulsating, 
and  fairly  trembleswith  excitement." — Chicago  Record. 

"To  the  names  of  Dickens,  Hugo,  and  Erckmann-Chatrian  must  be 
added  that  of  V€\i\  Gras,  as  a  romancer  who  has  written  a  tale  of  the 
French  Revolution  not  only  possessing  historical  interest,  but  charming  as 
a  story.  A  delightful  piece  of  literature,  of  a  rare  and  exquisite  flavor." — 
Buffalo  Express, 

"  No  more  forcible  presentation  of  the  wrongs  which  the  poorer  classes 
suflfered  in  France  at  the  end  of  the  eighteenth  century  has  ever  been  put 
between  the  covers  of  a  book." — Boston  Budget. 

"  Every  page  is  alive  with  incidents  or  scenes  of  the  time,  and  any  one 
who  reads  it  will  get  a  vivid  picture  that  can  never  be  forgotten  of  the 
Reign  of  Terror  in  Paris." — San  Francisco  Chronicle. 

"  The  author  has  a  rare  power  of  presenting  vivid  and  lifelike  pictures. 
He  is  a  true  artist.  .  .  .  His  warm,  glowing,  Provencal  imagination  sees 
that  tremendous  battalion  of  death  even  as  the  no  less  warm  and  glowing 
imagination  of  Carlyle  saw  it. " — London  Daily  Chronicle. 

"  Of '  The  Reds  of  the  Midi '  itself  it  is  safe  to  predict  that  the  story  will 
become  one  of  the  most  widely  popular  stories  of  the  next  few  months.  It 
certainly  deserves  such  appreciative  recognition,  for  it  throbs  with  vital  in- 
terest in  every  line.  .  .  .  The  characters  are  living,  stirring,  palpitating 
human  beings,  who  will  glow  in  the  reader's  memory'  long  after  he  has 
turned  over  the  last  pages  of  this  remarkably  fascinating  book." — Lon- 
don Daily  Mail. 

"A  charmingly  told  story,  and  all  the  more  delightful  because  of  the 
unstudied  simplicity  of  the  spokesman,  Pascalet.  Felix  Gras  is  a  true 
artist,  and  he  has  pleaded  the  cause  of  a  hated  people  with  the  tact  and  skill 
that  only  an  artist  could  employ." — Chicago  Evening  Post. 

"  Much  excellent  revoiution.iry  fiction  in  many  languages  has  been  writ- 
ten since  the  announcement  of  the  expiration  of  1889,  or  rather  since  the 
contemporary  publication  of  old  war  records  newly  discovered,  but  there  is 
none  more  vivid  than  this  story  of  men  of  the  south,  wiitten  by  one  of  their 
own  hlood."— Boston  Herald. 


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i; 


i 


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STEPHEN   CRANE'S   BOOKS. 
HE  THIRD   VIOLET.     i2mo.     Cloth,  $i.oo. 


Mr.  Crane's  new  novel  is  a  fresh  and  delightful  study  of  artist  life 
in  the  city  ami  the  country.  The  theme  is  worked  out  with  the  author's 
characteristic  uriginahty  .iniJ  force,  and  with  much  natural  humor.  In  sub- 
ject the  book  is  altogether  different  from  any  ol  its  predecessors,  and  the 
author's  marked  success  pnjves  his  breadth  and  the  versatility  of  his  great 
talent 

^HE  LITTLE   REGIMENT,  and  Other  Episodes  of 


1 


the  American  Civil  War,     i2mo.     Cloth,  $i.oo. 


"In  'The  Little  Regiment'  we  have  again  studies  of  the  volunteers 
waiting  impatiently  to  fight  and  fighting,  and  the  impression  of  the  contest 
as  a  private  soldier  hears,  sees,  and  feels  it  is  really  wonderful.  The  reader 
has  no  privileges.  He  must,  it  seems,  take  his  place  in  the  ranks,  and  stand 
in  the  mud,  wade  in  the,river,  fight,  yell,  swear,  and  sweat  with  the  men. 
He  has  some  sort  of  feeling,  when  it  is  all  over,  that  he  has  been  doing  just 
these  things.  This  sort  of  writing  needs  no  praise.  It  will  make  its  way  to 
the  hearts  of  men  without  praise." — New  York  Times. 

"Told  with  a  verve  that  brings  a  whiff  of  burning  powder  to  one's  nos- 
trils. ...  In  some  way  he  blazons  the  scene  before  our  eyes,  and  makes  us 
feel  the  very  impetus  of  bloody  war." — Chicago  Evening  Post. 

AGGIE:   A    GIRL  OF   THE    STREETS.     i2mo. 
Cloth,  75  cents. 

"By  writing  'Maggie'  Mr.  Crane  has  made  for  himself  a  permanent 
place  in  literature,  .  .  .  Zola  himself  scarcely  has  surpassed  its  tremendous 
portrayal  of  throbbing,  breathing,  moving  life." — New  York  Mail  and 
Express. 

"  Mr.  Crane's  story  shotild  be  read  for  the  fidelity  with  which  it  portrays 
a  life  that  is  potent  on  this  island,  along  with  the  best  of  us.  It  is  a  powerful 
portrayal,  and,  if  somber  and  repallent,  none  the  less  true,  none  the  less 
freighted  with  appeal  to  those  who  are  able  to  assist  in  righting  wrongs." — 
New  York  Times, 


M 


T 


HE  RED  BADGE  OF  COURAGE.     An  Episode  of 
the  American  Civil  War.     i2mo.     Cloth,  $i.oo. 

"Never  before  have  we  had  the  seamy  side  of  glorious  war  so  well  de- 
picted. .  .  .  The  action  of  the  story  throughout  is  splendid,  and  all  aglow 
with  color,  movement,  and  vim.  The  style  is  as  keen  and  bright  as  a  sword- 
blade,  and  a  Kipling  has  done  nothing  better  in  this  line." — Chicago  Evert' 
ing  Post. 

"There  is  nothing  in  American  fiction  to  compare  with  it.  .  .  .  Mr. 
Crane  has  added  to  American  literature  something  that  has  never  been  done 
before,  and  that  is,  in  its  own  peculiar  way,  inimitable." — Boston  Beacon. 

"  A  truer  and  completer  picture  of  war  than  either  Tolstoy  or  Zola." — 
London  New  Review. 


D.  APPLETON   AND   COMPANY,  NEW  YORK. 


V 


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